I had been looking at her the whole time, yet abruptly I saw her in a completely different way. Gone was the uninhibited sexual nymph. In her place was a fantastically beautiful princess, a warm and loving woman who for whatever reason happened to be wearing extremely feminine clothes. Yet the images and sensations I had just experienced seemed far too real and unfamiliar to me to be nothing more than the workings of my imagination.
Two women came out of the hall and approached our bench, and in an instant it was obvious that they were close friends of the woman sitting next to me. To my amazement both newcomers were also wearing sensuous stuff, only not of a kind so directly related to my fantasies. One wore a long dress, the other a short dress. Both dresses were made of a kind of synthetic jersey that was quite popular then, with a smooth, shiny surface similar to the first woman's pants only not nearly so liquid and supple and covered with a printed design. It seems ridiculous that a little thing like that can make such a difference, but where the solid blue jersey caught me like a bear trap the printed stuff just teased my interest.
The three of them launched into a gossip spree. I quickly noted that besides the expected banter about insignificant events their conversation kept returning to the clothes they wore. Girls talking about clothes is not exactly special, but I could piece together an underlying excitement they shared in what they had on. They were never direct, never said more than a few words at a time, but what developed was that they were fascinated by the feel of their clothes and what affect they might have on a guy. At first I thought they were talking about guys in general, then I thought one or two were talking about their boyfriends. After a few minutes I began to get the impression that they were in fact talking about the young graduate student who lectured the class. The two of them had just come out, and the third, the one still sitting next to me, was about to go in and carry on whatever it was they were doing.
The way they talked about their clothes was significant in that they avoided any personal confession. Instead, they teased each other about what the other was doing or supposedly feeling. The woman in the long dress complained about how cold she was during class, and her friend in the short dress shot back something about how that was why she kept spreading and closing her thighs, so that the fabric of her dress would tease her legs. The accused woman countered with a crack about how she at least wore panties, something her friend in the short dress probably hadn't so she could feel her dress tickling her ass while she walked around. It was all very catty, playful and highly improbable. Only, how did they know what to accuse the other of?
Several times the woman in the short dress glanced at me. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and I probably fabricated far more than what her eyes meant to say, but the result was electrifying. It felt as though she was a little embarrassed about how slutty she and her friend were behaving. Then it seemed more like it was a whimsical challenge, that they were doing this to tease me. Finally it seemed as though she wanted me to think about the fact that she was wearing nothing but that short little jersey dress, that it felt heavenly against her skin, that the feel of it was really turning her on and that she wanted to turn me on.
It was the two women who had just come out of the lecture hall who did all the catty talking. The woman in the slinky pants was never really drawn into it. She laughed occasionally, a beautiful bell-like sound that came from deep inside her, but never engaged in the erotic repartee.
I found myself adoring them all, but in different ways. I was lured by the way the two women in dresses kept hinting that they enjoyed the feel of the nylon jersey, and just the fact that they were willing to be as open as they were about their sensuality. Their friend in the pants remained by favorite, though. I actually found myself preferring her reserved, almost cool, perhaps even diffident manner, although there was a large dose of the classy, worldly woman that contrasted with that shy side of her.
Oh how I longed to have them all for a good tickling session. My fantasies always took place in caves, dungeons, or similarly sound-proof havens where the screams of a woman being tickled would not be noticed. Like everything else about that dream-like experience I had just had, the cabin in the forest was completely new. Sitting there stealing peeks at these vivacious young women wrapped in shimmering nylon I found it easy to imagine all three tied up in that cabin, and I in the role of the professor.
Launched now into erotic thoughts with total abandon I pushed deeper into the dark, frightening world of my desire. In addition to the ticklish torment I longed the beauty still seated next to me to endure, I thought again about the thrilling idea of the crotch seam of her nylon jersey pants digging deep into her labia. Remembering the intense pleasure I felt rubbing my cock with nylon lingerie it was easy to imagine her feeling the same pleasure. I saw her once again walking across campus, her every step sending mind searing jolts of pleasure shooting from her clit, coursing through every nerve in her body and exploding in her brain until her eyes watered and her knees became so weak she could hardly continue walking. The combination seemed perfect, her legs being stroked by sensuous nylon, her torso teased with light, shimmering silk, her nipples throbbing from the incessant rubbing against the ever so subtle roughness of the woven silk. Her entire body being continuously tickled while her nipples and clit were engulfed with the purest, most intense pleasure possible. She would come, the way I did, only hers would not be explosive, as that would end her sojourn with her collapsed on the ground shuddering like an epileptic. Her orgasms would be intense but short, and never enough to satisfy her desire. Nobody would suspect a thing. Anyone she passed would see a beautiful woman gracing the day with wonderfully sexy clothes, a woman who at most looked lost in thought and fighting back a sneeze.
Another image sprang into my mind, one that came a bit closer to my deepest, most secret desires, taking only a few seconds to snap into clear focus.
I was naked, lying on the carpet, face up, tightly bound in a spread-eagle position. My cock was locked in the grasp of a peculiar device, a sort of harness thing something like a pair of leather shorts with a hollow tube jutting out of it that held my cock pointed straight up, like a spaceship ready for launch, the lower half sheathed in stuff, tight leather and the exposed upper half eagerly awaiting someone's touch.
The woman in the bell bottom pants was standing over me, one foot on either side of my hips, her dainty feet lifted well off the ground by extreme looking platform shoes fastened securely to the floor. Her wrists, like mine, were held in cuffs that stretched her arms out and up. In this position the fabric that cascaded down from each of her knees to form the skirt-like hem mingled around my cock. Her tiniest movement caused the heavy, silky nylon to slither and slide against my turgid member, teasing me with its cold, sensuous touch and tickling my balls better than the finest feathers.
This young and beautiful tease was in fact herself a victim. As before, her pants diddled her clit, bombarding her with pleasure far more intense than the teasing the hem of her pants gave my cock. To make sure she kept moving she was tickled by the other two women. As the two women stroked their fingers over their friend's body she bucked and trembled, twisting and lurching, causing the crotch seam of her pants to pummel her clit and the hems of her pant legs to flutter around my cock.
The two friends were also dressed in sensuous fabric. I was so attached to the dark blue nylon of the pants just inches from where I sat engrossed in this fantasy that I did not hesitate to clothe them in it, too. Long, flowing evening gowns that molded themselves to their slender bodies, falling away from their hips into widely flared skirts that hung in soft folds.
Of course I imagined that the fabric felt unbearably ticklish against their bare skin, but even that was not enough to satisfy the cruel side of my lust. I imagined them both wearing tight leather thong bikini panties, the waist and crotch joined at the small of their backs by small but sturdy locks. Attached to the crotch straps were advanced, hi-tech dildo-shaped vibrators buried deep inside their cunts. These were not the everyday, battery powered variety shown in every sex toy catalog, but powerful, throbbing, variable speed tools powered by wall current. The speed controls were wired to skin transducers attached to their friend's body and set to register the muscular contractions associated with laughter. The harder she laughed, the less powerful the buzz. Each spasm of giggling brought five to ten seconds of mild, very pleasant stimulation that readily lead to gut wrenching orgasms. When she did not laugh at all the buzz in their cunts was so intense that after a few orgasms it was like torture. They had no choice but to keep their friend laughing, the harder the better, but even when she was laughing hysterically their bodies would be drenched by a continuous flood of cold, ticklish nylon and their cunts would tingle from the big, throbbing dildo held tightly in place by the locked-on leather panty.
The keys that unlocked those panties were in a wall safe, and only I knew the combination. I was not to be released until I came, and the only stimulation I could receive was the gentle caresses of the pant legs tickling my cock. The only thing the two girls could do to was to tickle their friend.
I was very proud of this wickedly convoluted fantasy and dreaming about how it would look and feel to have the woman still seated next to me towering over me, shrieking with laughter while her pants slowly teased my cock to orgasm. A gentle breeze kept toying with the loose fabric around her calves, setting up ripples and waves that looked uncannily like water. The richly dark blue nylon would suddenly burst with tiny sparkles of brilliance as it followed a curved fold, and whole long lines would flash with silvery white when the sun hit the fabric just right.
Suddenly she stood up. I almost cried out as my heart was struck by an arrow and my head spun in dizzy confusion. I was simply not prepared for how intensely erotic she looked. One moment she was a bound sex slave in my dreams, her pants stroking my cock until I screamed in joyous agony, and the next there she was, standing right in front of me, my face level with her crotch.
It was the first time I had really seen her move. She was the kind of woman I call a floater. Every part of her moved in smooth, flowing harmony, so full of grace that she would put a cat to shame. Only a kabuki actor playing a female role can move in a more feminine manner, and while he is obviously mimicking a female, this was a woman for whom such grace looks completely natural, the kind of woman who inspires such mimicry.
I was already sure that she had a good figure, but seeing her there confirmed it. Midway between a swimsuit model and a high fashion ramp model, her body was the perfect combination of willowy thinness and sultry curvaceousness. Her breasts were just right, the ideal mouthful, beautiful little mounds rather than just nipples on a flat chest or quivering melons of fat. She had a nicely defined waist, wide, wonderfully curved hips, legs full enough to avoid the label of skinny and unbelievably long for a Japanese-American.
I could not believe how sexy her pants looked. From her waist to her knees they molded themselves to her like a second skin. It was uncanny how they cupped her cute little ass, hugging the curve all the way to the line where her ass joined the backs of her thighs and dipping deeply in between her cheeks. Just after she stood up she turned to face me in order to stuff something into her big shoulder bag still sitting on the bench, and I almost passed out when I saw how completely the pants molded themselves to her cunt. It was just like the images I had dreamed of only minutes ago, where the seam disappears into her sweet lips and the fabric is drawn tightly up along the joint between her crotch and thigh. Three deep creases sweeping down from her mons pubis like a vortex sucking me into her inner sea.
Her pants were as tight as any could be, and no sign of a panty line. They were pulled deep into her labia as well. My skin broke out in goose bumps as I considered the possibility that here, for the first time in my life, I was seeing what before I had only read about. One female acquaintance had even waxed poetic about the joys of a tight pair of denim jeans, but her emphasis had been on the thick, double sewn seam on a good pair of Levi's. My just discovered interest was in having a woman's clit rubbing against sensuous nylon, and no sooner had I imagined it than there it was, right in front of my face.
Of course I wanted to follow her, but I did not want to look too obvious, either. You know, stay cool and all that. I sat still while waiting for her to get halfway to the door, trying not to stare too much and failing miserably at it. Emotionally I was like a puppy who is told to sit and wait until its master calls. Tail wagging, twisting from side to side, totally incapable of sitting still. I was drinking in the sight of her, trying to take in the whole of her yet focusing mostly on the glistening waterfall of blue nylon. It moved in just the way I recalled those blue silk dresses, slithering and dancing all around her calves. As she walked away I was transfixed at how the shiny surface emphasized the way each buttock rose and fell. Her body motion was no doubt influenced by her stylishly clunky platform shoes, her swaying gait adding still another delight to what was already an off the scale experience.
Just as she started to walk away my eyes darted to her friend in the short dress. She was looking right at me, her expression almost blank but with a hint of curiosity. The moment our eyes met she smiled, a knowing, "I know what you're thinking" kind of smile, then she turned her head to look at her friend in the blue pants. Perhaps I was caught in the act, but the way it felt to me was clearly positive, as if she had said "Isn't she terrific looking?"
She looked back at me, even as I was engaged in watching those perfectly curved buttocks rise and fall, and called out to her friend, "Call me later, yeah? I want to hear all about it."
The angel in the blue pants stopped, turned, and with a sheepish grin on her face shrugged her shoulders. It was the gesture of someone nervous about what was about to happen, hopeful that things would go well.
As soon as she turned away and started walking towards the door I got up and sauntered after her. Both of the angel's friends were now watching me. They were about ten feet away, and I had no choice but to walk right past them. I must have looked at them, and I might have smiled. They looked at each other and their faces broke out into big grins, then turned to walk away. For a few seconds I had all three in my field of vision, three great looking women covered in slinky, shiny nylon jersey that was blowing my circuit breakers from what I imagined they must be feeling as the sensuous stuff slithered over their skin.