The act of her turning smoothly and sitting down gave me one more chance to see her pants dance around her legs. Little did I know that it would be my last for the duration of the lecture. My plan had been to peer down from above and feast on the sight of her jersey-clad legs, but it was not to be. All I could see was the back of her head and the tops of her shoulders. Had she crossed her legs I think I would have had a view of the raised ankle, but she kept both feet chastely on the floor.
It did not take long to overcome my disappointment at not being able to stare at her clothes throughout the class period. I was swept up by an overriding sense of urgency to formulate a plan for what I would do after class.
I am embarrassed to admit that I actually considered stalking her. I had never just gone up to a strange women and tried to meet her. Every new encounter had evolved from an introduction or a group activity of some sort. Being in the same small, lab-type class would have qualified, but a couple of hundred people jammed into a lecture hall did not meet my definition of "group." I don't think I had any intention of jumping her should the opportunity have arisen -- all I really wanted was to see her in action and learn more about her. Where she hung out, ate lunch, what car she drove. I definitely was uncomfortable approaching her and totally unwilling to let her go, so I probably saw stalking her as a compromise, a way to buy time.
Funny, how the mind works. Stalking her just didn't seem right to me. My reaction was not about getting caught, it was based on her privacy. I had a clear sense that she had the right to walk around campus without hassle, that I had the right to approach her and make my interest known, and that should she reject me I could not continue following her around. By not approaching her I left her out of the transaction, which is a form of non-consentual behavior. I could sit on that bench discreetly ogling her, follow her into class and sit close to her, but I could not follow her all over campus.
That decided, I had to come up with a fool-proof, fail-safe, guaranteed-to-work-the-first-time pickup line. Me, a guy who had never really done this before, trying to land the most perfect women I had seen in my life. I was certain that it was possible if only I had more interesting things to offer. Should I tell her I have back stage passes to a great concert? An invitation to a private party at Spats disco? That I drive a Ferrari? That my friend has a forty foot ketch and is always looking for people to crew on trips to Maui?
At first, every time I tried to imagine myself approaching her my mind went blank, my palms got sweaty and my mouth felt dry as cotton. Then I would gaze down on her and my thoughts would leap to the most outrageous fantasies.
One thing I could not stop thinking about was the sight of her pants dragging over that first guy's knees, and the look on his face that was repeated by each of the others as she passed by. I was convinced that hers were not the kind of pants that looked slinky but felt mundane. Hers had to be made of fabric with that mysterious quality that ignites the nerves, flooding them with rich, sensuous pleasure. The idea of her feeling that all over her legs was simply too much to bear.
An image sprang into my mind, the details of which I had never imagined before. I was kneeling in front of her, naked, my wrists bound behind my back. My cock was super hard, kept that way by a long silk sash she had wound tightly around it. The ends of the sash extended up to a belt around my waist, where they were tied to metal rings at each hip. All this kept my cock hopelessly erect and pointed up and out. She was standing over me, so that the bottom of her pants brushed against my cock. I could not settle on any one activity for her to be engaged in. I remember considering her working at a counter in a women's clothing store, talking to a friend on the phone, and at a party. All of the activities I pictured her doing emphasized a lack of interaction between us, a physical manifestation of the relationship that existed between us up until now. She knew I was there, that the sensation of her pants brushing against the tip of my cock amounted to a diabolical form of torture, and that my suffering was intensified due to my finding it close to impossible to come that way. I was unable to move, or I would twist and hump as much as possible to increase the pressure on my cock. What would begin as the most wonderful kind of pleasure would in an hour's time evolve into the most sublime torment, when my cock had become so tender that the slightest contact with the fabric sent packets of the purest, most highly refined pleasure wrapped in a shroud of searing pain blasting up into my brain.
Another image that I played out again and again, in-between attempts to formulate a pick-up strategy, was based on how she had looked just moments before she sat down, when she was standing bent over at the waist. I kept trying to imagine how I could restrain her in that position, only with her legs spread. I did not dwell too long on that detail, as my thoughts would always jump to how she would react to my running my fingertips all over the tight fabric covering her ass and thighs. I was convinced that it would tickle. If I held my imagination in check I allowed that it would feel nicely ticklish, enough to make her giggle and squeal. I was not in the mood to confine myself to that which was only plausible, though, preferring to lapse into my make-believe world in which the fabric had the power to amplify the sensations such that the lightest touch would produce ticklish sensations that were far more intense than anything she could experience otherwise, yet so rich in pleasure that she sought nothing more than for her torment to continue unabated.
This is the definitive state of my tickling fantasies, drawn from the sensual and emotional dichotomy one normally experiences at the height of sexual stimulation. When pleasure becomes like pain, when to continue for even a few more seconds is impossible without screaming yet to stop is unthinkable. Her silk blouse and nylon pants would start her on the journey, basking her in continuous ticklish pleasure that rose to challenge her ability to withstand it whenever she walked. Submitting to bondage was a means to and end, a way for her to endure the unbearable tickling wrought by my fingers gliding over the slick, shiny fabric. Bound and incapable of intervening, the torment of the fabric amplifying the sensations would drive her to the brink of madness, the same precipice upon which we teeter at the height of our sexual frenzy. Like a skilled lover, my job was to play out the experience by pushing her to the limit and holding her there as long as possible, to the point where her desire to have it go on merged with her desire for her torment to end. Then, and only then, would my hand dip in between her legs, but even then I was to deny her the satisfaction of a sudden burst of firm pressure that drove her explosively over the edge. No, her torment would not end so easily. I would stroke her cunt but ever so lightly, tickling her more than she had ever thought possible. The combination of intense ticking and the long awaited pleasure from her clit would merge into a unique experience, the best of both worlds. Here she would remain for many long minutes, her utterances, diminished from exhaustion, a confused combination of laughter and moans of ecstasy. With the greatest of care I would alter the pressure, feeling for the small hardness of her clit through the fabric and scratching over it ever so delicately then slipping away to tickle all around it, teasing her, drawing out her torment, holding her at that point where she fears that she will die if I go on any longer. When I am convinced that she is at the limit, when her eyes have the look of a wild animal and her body is heaving uncontrollably, struggling so hard against the bonds that restrain her that I fear she may injure herself, only then do I linger at her clit until her body shudders into the bliss of orgasm.
With thoughts such as those forcing themselves into my consciousness it is easy to understand how difficult it was for me to formulate a clear, concise, objective plan of action. I had made no more progress towards that end when I found the lecture ending. The room lights grew brighter, and all around me students were getting up to leave. The angel in front of me did too, and I was overcome with fear at the challenge that presented itself to me.
Do or die. Now or never. Put up or shut up. Say something or expect nothing. The sutra of action. While never at the time so distinct, this was the frame of mind I found myself in. My mood was altogether different from what it had been throughout the previous two hours, shifting between resolve and panic.
I followed her out of the hall just as carefully as I had on the way in, only now I paid little attention to the clothes she wore or the significance they held for me. I was determined to go up to her, to say something, anything, no matter how foolish or inept the attempt. To do that I unconsciously suppressed every shred of her sexual persona. Only in that way was she approachable. It is the sort of adjustment a warrior makes before going into battle, when to contemplate head-on one's impending death would make the charge at dawn seem too foolhardy an endeavor to attempt. The outcome I anticipated was hardly less threatening to my sexual self.
Outside, the brilliant sunshine did nothing to ease my dread. I am certain that it reflected off her clothing in brilliant flashes that rippled over her body like waves of electromagnetic energy. It would have been the kind of moment I lived for, a sight that should have dazzled me, the shimmering waves coursing over her symbolizing her raw sexual power, jumping the gap between us like a multi-megavolt spark, the raw energy flowing straight into my cock. So focused were my thoughts that I noticed nothing of the sort. She might have well been wearing denim coveralls.
I had more or less planned on going up to her as soon as we got outside, but the crowd swept us past the lanai and out onto the grassy courtyard. At last the crowd thinned, leaving her and I reasonably alone and about twenty feet apart. I quickened my pace to close the gap.
Again I have no recollection of anything like the desire I felt earlier over her clothes, only a sense of wondrous delight at how small she appeared. This sudden awareness of her petite build, short but not lacking in curvature, brought back memories of intimate moments with my girlfriend. Not the sweaty, heart pounding, screaming-in-ecstasy times, but rather the sweet, gentle times when her nudity made her seem so vulnerable and I longed to always be there to protect her. The feel of her doll-like body snuggled against mine. The heart-stopping sight of her long black hair flowing over the hollow of her waist and tumbling down over the gentle swell of her hips.
Suddenly the woman I was following was not at all intimidating. Reassured by my recollections a line sprang into my head, exactly the sort of thing that had eluded me throughout the lecture. I would invite her to a party I was giving. I hadn't planned on one, but all it would take was a few phone calls. It would mean a busy half a day straightening up, cleaning out the cats' litter box, hiding all my feminine clothing, but I would have to do that anyway if she agreed to go out to dinner with me.
I had halved the distance between us, and now that I had a plan my feet seemed to float over the sidewalk as I scurried to catch up to her. In an instant my plan had evolved to where I would ask her to bring her two friends, and to suggest that they all wear exactly what they had on to the party. It felt risky, but just enough so that it might work. Not too dorky, yet not blatantly bizarre.
In a few more seconds I would be even with her. I could see her profile, and for the first time since class had let out I allowed myself to consider what a treasure she was. Breathtakingly cute face, a terrific figure, utterly feminine, and an almost regal kind of poise in the way she floated along the pathway.