Things were to the point where I would lose sight of my angel if I did not hustle. She was disappearing inside the door, I was thirty feet behind her and a milling crowd of bleary-eyed undergrads had appeared out of nowhere to fill the gap. I sprang into action, elbowing my way past people and drawing more than a few muttered complaints in the process until suddenly there she was, right in front of me. My heart was already working hard from chasing after her, but upon seeing her it began to race as though I had just set an Olympic record running the 100 meters.
She was working her way down the stepped aisle and was one step lower than me when I jostled my way past the last remaining student separating us. In my shock at suddenly being so close to her I almost tripped over the edge of the step and careened right into her. Instinctive reaction made me catch my balance, but I regretted not making better use of the opportunity. If I had tripped and collided with her I might have been able to touch what she was wearing, to see for myself if it really did feel as smooth and cold as I thought it did. It also might have given me a great chance to meet her, eliminating the need for that most terrifying of customs, the pick-up line.
The rows adjacent to where we were standing had many empty seats, and I prayed that she would choose one of them so that I could sit next to her. Instead she waited as the crowd moved closer to the stage and continued on down the steps. She must have gone a dozen more steps down, and each step produced the most tantalizing display of the remarkable qualities of her outfit.
She was holding some books clutched to her chest. Every time she stepped down the billowy sleeves of her silk blouse floated up, then settled softly down over her arms again a moment later. This demonstration of the lightness and suppleness of the fabric drove me wild. The sight sent chills rushing up my spine, echoes of what I wanted her to feel.
Hers was not one of those blouses with scarf-like sleeves attached to heavier material for the body. The whole blouse was the same. Very smooth yet not like satin, shimmering but in a way that caught the light and threw it back in a scattered cloud of sparkles like the finest misty rain. Somehow I knew beyond any doubt that it would not disappoint me should I have the opportunity to touch it, that it would not fall short of my desire to have it feel icy cold and irresistibly sensuous against her tender skin.
I was already in orbit over the way her nylon pants moved, but the steps only added to my admiration for this wonderful new experience. Every time she stepped down the fabric around her calves swelled out into a huge, softly tapered bell. From there it all flowed forward, swinging out a good two feet in front of her. At that point her foot was planted, and when the forward motion was caught the fabric swept back, swirling around her calves. I had never seen movement like that in a woman's pants, only in a few very rare cases of knee length dresses and skirts. As with those, the subtle sheen of the fabric contributed significantly to the effect. Heavy satin would have more than enough shine, but not the jiggley motion. Certain kinds of cotton have a similar sort of jiggle, but lack the shimmery surface that exaggerates the effect. Most important to me was that it looked like it should feel terrific, like her blouse only more intense because of the heavier weight.
Despite my total fixation on the way her clothes moved and my burning desire that the feel of what she was wearing was tickling her out of her mind I somehow managed to notice the build of her shoulders, which in its own way contributed to my desire for her. Blessed as she was with a delightful hourglass shape, her shoulders had a thin, frail quality more in keeping with a stick thin body. These were the days before shoulder pads turned women's delicate shoulders into super-hero shapes. The soft fabric of her blouse draped itself effortlessly over her shoulders, reveling a complex and ever changing sculpture of smooth bumps and hollows. No doubt it was the sense of frailty this conveyed that moved me so, yet it was an attribute of women I had never noticed before.
It feels strange to report that my reaction was not to cuddle her in a protective hug, but rather to see her limbs held outstretched by unyielding ropes and her body quivering in uncontrolled spasms as I tickled her to the limit of her endurance. Was I that much of a bully, a sadist, who's only desire was to torment so soft and delicate a creature? I can only say that I wanted her to experience absolute pleasure. Inescapable and overwhelming, yet totally of her own volition. Yes, I wanted to dominate her, but it would be worthless without her wanting it, without her loving every second of her sensual ordeal. It was not about punishment, or degradation or deprivation. It was about inundation, being bombarded by sensations that began just short of her tolerance from the feel of her clothes and pushed beyond that point to a level that could only be sustained with the aid of restraints, a level at which she screamed uncontrollably and begged me to stop. I wanted the experience to unlock her deepest desires, to tear away every shred of the conscience, rational thoughts that are the barrier to attaining the highest level of sexual gratification.
As noble as these ideas seemed I suffered terribly from the total lack of agreement that existed in my life to that point concerning such behavior. I read Playboy regularly, along with every trashy novel I could find. I was thrilled by two passages in the novel Candy, the one where the mother quips that she wished she could go around with a clothespin clamped to her clit and the time the hunchback beat Candy with a clothes hanger. Those were as close as I had come to descriptions of intense sensations used to enhance a woman's pleasure. Even though they had nothing to do with tickling I believed that my ideas held the same potential. I did not fail to notice that neither was presented as an ideal to strive for, and that to desire such behavior was generally considered as sick and perverted.
Still harder to accept was my infatuation with women's clothing. I never read anything that so much as hinted that a man might be aroused by the idea that what a woman was wearing felt good to her. Panties were frequently mentioned in conjunction with sex and gender, but only in the most negative way, as in taunts about a guy being so inept with women that he had to resort to getting his kicks from playing with his sister's underwear. I was one of those lingerie drawer spelunkers, helplessly addicted to depositing great globs of sticky white goo on my sister's nylon slips and panties and burying them deep in the dirty clothes hamper.
At college, living on my own not only gave me the opportunity to entertain women, but to explore to the extent my limited finances allowed the kinds of clothes that moved me to total sexual abandonment. Panties and slips were only the poorest of substitutes. What really sent me skyward were clothes I could see, things that flowed over a woman's body in ways that to me cried out that she was being inundated with ticklish yet sensual pleasure.
I was mystified as to why anything that produced so much pleasure was labeled as sick and perverted. Just as puzzling was that fact that while I got totally turned on by wearing a sensuous pleated skirt I could find nothing to suggest that even a few women experienced the same thing. For weeks leading up to this fateful morning I had spent every night pacing around my apartment in my favorite silk blouses and accordion pleated skirts, going mad with desire from the ticklish feel of the clothes caressing my skin, then laying in bed on my back and sweeping my cock back and forth against the inside of my skirt until the waves of pleasure rose to such intensity that it became almost torture. There I would hang, for as long as an hour, my wonderful cock swollen to gargantuan size and singing with pleasure as it brushed against the cold, sensuous fabric, the sensation broken into rapid pulses of white hot ecstasy as the sharp edges of the pleats flicked over the tip. When I could not stand it another second I finally picked up the pace, forcing myself not to succumb to the intense desire to squeeze and pump, thrashing about and crying out like a man on the rack until at last I went over the edge, soaking the skirt as my body went berserk. It was everything I wanted a woman to experience, a perfect validation of what I believed to be possible except for the fact that I was a man and therefore could never experience it as a woman.
There were several reasons for the melancholy that settled over me in the wake of these ordeals. I missed my woman, terribly, and to be so close to a woman by means of such feminine clothing and yet to be alone was doubly sad. There was the fact that I still had never experienced a full blown episode such as this, a long evening playing with a woman who wore such clothing and took great delight in the way it felt. Still worse was my conclusion that my girlfriend was not the type to dress that way or to allow me to tie her up and tickle her to orgasm. To not yet have experienced something always leaves room for hope, but even that hope had been dashed. The problem there was that I adored this woman, and was loath to leave her over so superficial a thing as whether she dressed kinky for me. Perhaps hardest of all to take was the feeling that what I did for pleasure was branded by my peers as sick. Or would be if they ever found out.
At last the angel before me stopped her procession down the stepped aisle and started down a row of seats. To my horror I saw that the row she had selected had only one empty seat. Fighting back a rush of fear that she was on to me and had chosen this row in order to preclude my sitting next to her, I saw that the seats behind the one she was heading towards were still empty. Disappointment welled up and formed a lump in my chest, but I tried to make the best of this unexpected turn of events by thinking that even if I could not sit right next to her at least I could sit behind her and, due to the extreme rake of the floor, gaze down upon her from on high.
Because nobody was sitting in the seats in my row I got to the seat behind what was to be hers well before she did. In fact, she was still standing in the aisle, waiting for a nerdy looking guy in the aisle seat to pick up something so that she could get by. Fearful that she might change her mind I remained standing, even though I had no plan of action should she move to a different location. What happened next was so hilarious to watch that if I had only seen that much of the morning's events I would have been delighted.
The nerdy guy was obviously flustered by her. Three more guys were between her and the empty seat, and all four of them were pawing at books and folders in a frantic attempt to prepare for her passing, their eyes wide with amazement and remained fixed on her as much as possible.
After a good fifteen or twenty seconds the first guy had enough of his stuff hauled up off the floor for the woman to attempt passing in front of him. Smiling ever so sweetly and murmuring breathy whispers of gratitude she started to ease her way past this gauntlet of young men who's bodies were bursting with testosterone. The space between rows was so limited that you had no choice but to use a side-stepping technique, either with your front or your backside facing the seats. This dear woman chose to face her opposition.
The poor bloke who now was attempting to hold half of the Hamilton Library collection in his lap suddenly found himself staring directly at this adorable woman's thighs, covered in skin tight, glistening, shimmering blue nylon jersey. If he glanced up even slightly he could not have avoided noticing the way the crotch seam of her pants dug a little furrow in that wonderful inch wide strip between her thighs, that hypnotic presentation of her labia that I had found so irresistible when she had been standing in front of me outside. He must have noticed it, because he just sat there staring at her crotch with his jaw hanging down.
The lucky bastard must have left something on the floor. She was right in front of him, her load of books clutched to her breast and her body teetering precariously on her high platform shoes. She was facing him, moving to her right, and had just slid her right foot forward when she appeared to trip. Without a free arm to grab the back of a chair, all she could do to catch herself was to raise and extend her left leg. When she started her left foot was outside his right. In the process of regaining her balance it ended up on the inside.
Even though I had been staring at her for many long minutes I was still astounded at how much fabric spilled down from her raised knee when she lifted her leg. One moment all I could see was dark blue nylon that covered her thighs so smooth and tight it looked like she had been sprayed with auto body paint, then suddenly it was pouring down off her knee like a waterfall. In the process of drawing her leg up and over this cascade of heavy nylon jersey flowed over the right knee of the nerdy guy. A very bare knee, as all four guys were wearing shorts. It was not just a brief touch, a scant flick, but a long, drawn out torrent that flowed over his skin for a couple of seconds at least. Her foot came down right next to his, and from the way the fabric continued to swirl and sway I had no doubt but that it continued to brush against the inside of his calf.
The expression on this guy's face was priceless. His eyes practically popped right out of his head. His mouth puckered into a small circle, as if he were saying "Oooo!" except I never heard any sound. He glanced down, then up at her, and finally managed a smile as he squirmed around in a feeble attempt to slide back in his seat.
Her balance restored, the woman gazed down at him and, chuckling in obvious amusement, said "Sorry." His award winning come back was "That's OK."
She still had three more guys to navigate past. There were no more mishaps, but as she squirmed past each one it was obvious that the billowing sea of nylon surrounding her calves managed to stroke all six of their bare legs. The effect was obvious. Each of them watched her coming, and as she passed their look of puzzled admiration suddenly changed, to startled surprise followed by a silly grin. When she was finally past them and setting herself into the seat right in front of me they were all grinning and exchanging furtive glances. The second one poked his elbow into the first one's ribs, and he rolled his eyes and shook his head.
My reaction to this little scene was a complex mixture of admiration, anger, and delight. I admired their luck at being so close to her and at having the opportunity to experience the feel of those fantastic looking pants. I was angry, truly outraged, at not being so fortunate. My delight resulted from the fact that their reaction confirmed what I suspected, that the fabric of her pants had a large dose of that special quality I found so intriguing, that the feel of it was remarkably sensuous. As turned on as I already was just from looking at her, I was now reeling from the thought that what she was wearing was truly bombarding her with continuous, inescapable pleasure.
The only thing I could not be certain of was whether or not it actually felt ticklish to her. Based on my own experience with women's clothing, albeit nothing so sensuous looking a those pants, I had to consider that it might not be as much a yes or no question as a matter of degree. The things I had tried certainly felt ticklish, if only very slightly. Assuming that her outfit was better than anything I had found, which was a distinct possibility, and taking into account the reports I had read claiming that women experience pleasure over most of their bodies in a way that is significantly different than men, I found it very easy to adopt a position that she could be experiencing sensations that were undeniably ticklish.
None of the above had gelled into such clear, concise ideas at the time. In circumstances like these we operate mostly out of reaction. Later, after the dust has settled, we go back and re-live the moment, piecing together words that come closest to describing the events and the emotions that accompanied them.
My reaction to seeing that angel making her way to her seat was certainly intense. I must have looked just as strange as those four guys did. I do not recall thinking about it, but my eyes were probably welling with tears from having stared so long and so hard, and my tongue must have been hanging so far out of my mouth that it dragged on the floor. What I do recall is a feeling of numbness, which continued beyond physical sensation to a point where it impaired my ability to think. Whenever I hear about crimes committed in the heat of passion, where temporary insanity is used as an explanation, I think about how I felt at that moment. I am truly amazed that I did not reach over the seat between us and start to paw at her clothes. Had I done so I would most likely have snapped back into consciousness to find a gaggle of security guards pinning me down and as shocked as anyone upon hearing what I had done.
As soon as she got to her seat she plopped her bag on the floor, which had her leaning over, bent at the waist, more or less in profile. Once again my brain was seared by a mosaic of erotic images. The shimmery, clingy nylon jersey swept over the cheeks of her as in the most incredible way. The perfect curvature of her buttocks was highlighted by seams in the pants which ran from the waist clear down to the cuffs. Somehow I had missed seeing this until now. The effect was very much like the back seams in a pair of classic nylon stockings, especially where the seams traced the soft curves along the backs of her thighs. What struck me so powerfully now was the way these seams continued on up over her buttocks, spreading slightly as they passed over the peak of each luscious mound, then drawing in slightly as they completed their journey to her waist.
The moment was too rich a feast to concentrate solely on her ass. I still could see most of her pant legs, and despite my having concentrated so much attention on them they were still irresistible to watch. I had seen countless women wearing bell bottom pants in the preceding year or two. Many were the same dark blue color, and made of something a lot more interesting than denim. What made these special was the way the fabric hung from the knee in deep, softly curved folds that never stopped moving. The way they moved reminded me of a flag fluttering in a gentle breeze, or ripples drifting over a lake.
Years later I would unravel the mystery of what it was about that aspect of her pants that made my attention lock on like a heat seeking missile, but I was unable to make the connection at the time. The first silk dresses I had associated with tickling had very full knee-length skirts that moved the same way. That had been when I was seven, and for many years afterward any blue dress or skirt that hung in soft folds that fluttered around the wearer's legs triggered the same reaction. Any dark blue skirt made my heart skip a beat, as did any flared skirt of another color, but when the three elements of dark blue color, a shimmering, silky-looking surface and lots of deep, softly curving folds came together I was overcome by the most intense emotions imaginable. At the core of my infatuation was my belief that a women wearing something like that had to be experiencing that wonderful kind of tickling that was so erotic to me.
Later, long after the seething emotions unleashed by this sighting had subsided, I was able to consider quite rationally how much less effective these pants would be at tickling the wearer than the skirts and dresses I had become so enamored with. I reasserted my belief that the best possible outfit that a woman could wear was a silk dress, tight to the waist with a very full, knee length skirt. I wanted the skirt to move exactly the way this woman's pant legs moved, a never-ending dance of shimmering motion that caused the cold silk to flow constantly over the bare skin of her ass and thighs. I reacted much more intensely to the idea of the fabric tickling this part of her body rather than her calves, which I presumed would be the result produced by these slinky bell bottoms. I did not write bell bottoms off, however, as I still found it intriguing that pants like these provided the opportunity to stroke my fingers ever so lightly over her cunt, and tickling a woman's cunt was for me the ultimate experience, oftentimes more desirable even than having sex.
She did not remain standing for very long. A few seconds to set down her bag and her armload of books, a few more bent over rummaging in her bag, then she sat down.
There was a moment, a fraction of a second, in which her eyes met mine. It was just after she straightened up. While she was bent over she was side-on to me, her head to my left, angled just slightly toward the front of the room which put a bit more of her ass in view. When she arose she turned to her left to face the back of the room, most likely to pick her books up from her chair. What made it so strange was that she did not remain bent over, then look up suddenly to see me, nor did she straighten up, turn, and notice me. What happened was something in between, a subtle positioning of her head and shoulders as she was about half way up. Left shoulder up a bit, chin down a little, head turned so that her chin pointed towards her left shoulder, her head cocked over slightly to the right. When her eyes met mine there was not the slightest sign of surprise. She did not squint, or flutter her eyelashes, or even so much as smile. She looked at me, right at me, with an expression that was unfathomable. As sweet a the moment was it did not linger. Her big, wide set brown eyes looked deep into mine while in one continuous motion she unwound, rotating her shoulders, waist and legs until she was facing me. She just looked down, gathered up her books, and briskly spun around and sat down.
It was the worst kind of enigma. Had she really been looking at me? Perhaps she saw someone she knew at the back of the room, or was simply staring off into space. If she actually was looking at me, was it the come-on it had felt like, or could it have been that my lust for her was so blatantly obvious, my face so utterly transparent, that she was angered by it? Could it be that she realized I had been staring at her but oblivious as to why? Let's face it, the way I felt about her clothes was completely out of the ordinary, but even so I believed then as I do now that many men would consider what she had on to be sexy. However strange the basis of my lust was, only the most naive female could dress that way and have no idea that men would consider it alluring.
If she were that innocent, was she worth pursuing? There is always the appeal of enlightening a person to things they have no knowledge of, a role that men especially find appealing but is also very much a part of the older woman/younger man relationship . The danger that lurks in relationships of that sort is that the innocent may revolt. All the more likely that this woman might revolt once she discovered the degree of my interest in her clothes.
My consternation was abated somewhat when I recalled the events that had taken place outside. She had not been an active participant in the tête-à-tête that had transpired between her friends, but it was obvious that she was aware of the theme they had tiptoed around. This alone was insufficient to presume that she would appreciate my special desire, but she was certainly not innocent as to the basic concept.