This sighting inspired me to do whatever it would take to give my girlfriend a pair of the same kind of pants. This amounted to a significant advance in my willingness to reveal my fetish interest to someone else. Until then I had only given gifts that hovered at the edge of my fetish, gifts like pretty nylon panties that were I thought at the very limit of what a young guy should give his girlfriend. The women who had received these gifts were delighted, as all they ever wore were plain cotton or everyday nylon briefs, and they were much too shy to buy the fancy, lace-trimmed, sheer nylon kind for themselves. As for me, my passion meter would peg when my hand slipped in-between their thighs and I felt my fingertip touch the fabric that adorned her sex, more still when I found and rubbed her clit through the material.
I walked on clouds for a week when my girlfriend at that time admitted that she really enjoyed being played with that way. She said she loved the feel of my finger on her bare clit even though it was almost torture, but while that felt exquisite the orgasm it produced was brief and unsatisfying. When I rubbed her clit through her sheer nylon panty, especially when I used another layer of fabric, the pleasure was deep and rich, and slowly built to a long, deep, very satisfying orgasm. So was very impressed with me for knowing about this technique, and grateful that I did not just want to shove as many fingers as I could inside her. That accomplished, I was ready to move on, to get closer to my ultimate goal of a gift of clothing that felt really good just walking around in, that I could see and get turned on by, and that when we were alone I could use to give her a new and different experience.
The following weekend I went to every women's store that might even remotely sell such pants. More than a dozen places, if not two. At stores that catered more to older women I was met with blank stares and polite offerings to look over their line of thick, polyester pants or, once they understood that what I wanted looked sexy, their chiffon cocktail dresses.
At the junior stores I did a little better. There the salesgirls knew exactly what I was looking for but could only offer regrets that as yet they had not received any. All of the young salesgirls agreed that it was THE hot look, the latest trend, very sexy, and impossible to find. At one store, Villa Roma to be exact, I was told that they did get in a shipment of pants exactly like what I described and that they sold out in a matter of days. Almost hours. One of those time that Audrey chose wisely, and no doubt kicked herself for not buy triple the quantity!
The standard line, almost a mantra, offered at every store was that they would be getting a lot more stuff in before Christmas, that those slinky bell bottoms were definitely on order, and to check back at least once a week because as soon as they came in they were bound to sell out. Happy that I had gotten such a big kick out of the latest fashion craze and not some weird, odd-ball style that my girlfriend would feel uncomfortable wearing, and that there would soon be many versions to choose from, I confidently started back to my car.
My route took me past a landmark fabric store of the day, Musashiya. I knew they carried the kind of printed nylon jersey the other two girls' dresses had been made of, and on the spur of the moment decided to drop in.
When I started my shopping expedition that day I promised myself that I was going to buy something for my girlfriend to wear. It was for me in that it would turn me on, but not for me to wear or masturbate with. Each time I entered a store that resolution was tested. The thought that kept popping into my head was that if I found pants to fit my girlfriend they would be much to small for me to wear, and I would never know how they felt. Whenever the dialog with a salesgirl seemed to get anywhere close to what I sought my thoughts would dissolve into a cloud of confusion about how to answer the inevitable question, "What size is she?"
When I walked into Musashiya I knew very well that I did not want to by the printed nylon jersey for my girlfriend. It was just not as adequate a manifestation of my fantasies as the pants. All I had in mind was to by a piece as much as possible like the stuff the two girls' dresses were made of, so I could go home and masturbate with it. In that I experienced a terrible double-bind. I believed then as I do now that there is nothing wrong with pleasuring myself, even in so off-beat a way as rubbing my cock with a piece of nylon jersey. What I was unhappy about then was pretty much the same thing I am unhappy about now, that relying too much on this form of stimulation reduces the significance of having a woman as a sex partner and tends to place a barrier between us. The goal I had set for myself long before this sighting was to have my partner wear the sexy stuff and to enjoy the pleasure it gives her. At that moment I had failed to acquire a partner who already wore what I wanted, as had happened many times before, and the woman I truly loved was thousands of miles away. To make matters worse, I had failed to find the pants I believed would be the perfect way to introduce her to the full extent of my fetish. What I needed was a jolt of comfort, yet to accept that meant failing to keep my promise to myself.
There I was, an emotional mess, walking into a store that I knew would give me a chance to experience a second-best form of my fetish and miserable about my desire to give in to it, when what should I see right inside the door but a big display of solid color nylon jersey! I was absolutely stunned. At least a dozen bolts were piled on a table, in three colors, green, yellow, and, as luck would have it, blue. The exact same shade of blue as the pants the angel on campus had worn.
I strolled up to the table hoping I looked a lot more casual than I felt. My palms were sweaty, my stomach hurt, my heart was pounding and I could hardly breath. I tugged a bit of the blue fabric from a bolt. It felt wonderfully cold against my fingers. As surreptitiously as James Bond picking a lock, I ran my hand over it, drinking in the smoothness as if it were one hundred year old cognac.
I was on the brink of feinting when a salesgirl approached and asked if I needed any help. My immediate reaction was to feel angry, because she had intruded into my very personal and private space. I just wanted to be left alone. I snapped back to something more like reality when I realized how attractive she was. Young, cute, with really big eyes, almost as perfect as the angel at school. She started to say something about the fabric I would have been drooling all over except that my mouth was as dry as cotton, something about it having just arrived a couple of weeks ago and already the blue had almost sold out. She had that marvelous quality of being extremely positive, relaxed and reassuring, as if the thing she was selling was the most perfect of its kind and that without question you wanted it and could have it.
I almost began to recite what was by then my mantra about looking for slinky blue super-wide bell bottoms for my girlfriend when I drew up short. This girl was not only cute, but seemed to have a personality loaded with poise and that most desirable of all attributes, nurturing. She worked in a store that sold sexy, feminine fabrics, including the most desirable fabric I had ever seen, which was a nice bonus. I was certain that if we had a relationship and I revealed my lust at seeing her in clothes made of such fabric she would chuckle with delight and tell me that I was the first guy she had felt comfortable enough with to admit how turned on she got when she dressed that way.
(That this quality was important to me in a woman at that time comes as no surprise when you think of where I was at. I was ready to confess my fetish to my girlfriend. Fantasizing about this woman doing likewise and judging her to be desirable was my attempt to cast my confession in a positive light.)
So, what was I doing there? Trolling for girls who worked in fabric stores? Improvising one word at a time, I fabricated a yarn (sorry!) about having spotted this display while walking past and come in out of curiosity, shifting immediately to a question about whether or not this fabric could be used to make pants.
She looked a little confused. All she could say was, "Er, well, uh," until I realized what was wrong and quickly amended my question to mean women's pants. She grinned, sighed, and replied that most of the girls who bought it used it for pants.
"Bell bottoms?" I asked, sneaking up to my target like a cat stalking a bird.
"For sure," she said, her eyes flashing and her expression nothing but seductive.
"I saw a girl on campus the other day in a pair that were really far out. Smooth and tight on top, but at least two feet across at the bottom except that the fabric was so slinky it all just hung from her knees. Shiny and blue, just like this."
"Oh yes," she said. That's a real popular look right now. A lot of girls want it, but it's not in the stores yet so they've been coming in here to buy this fabric and sew their own. Several of us here have."
I staggered under another heart pounding, gut wrenching, sweaty palms reaction. Not only was this girl beautiful, she owned a pair of The Pants! I had to make some kind of move, and again was at a complete loss about what to say to her. All I could think of was to chat a bit more, then offer to buy her a coffee when she got a break.
She went on, her expression radiant.
"It's a new kind of nylon jersey, called Qiana. All of the other jersey we sell is tricot, but this is double-knit. Tricot is like the fabric used for lingerie, smooth on the outside but kind of textured on the inside. Double-knits are heavier, which makes them good for pants, and looks the same on the front and back.
"It can be used for anything dressy. An evening gown, a long skirt, even a jumpsuit. It's perfect for slinky bell bottoms. I wish I had mine here so I could show you how softly it falls, and how nicely it moves. Very fluid. There're really wild looking, and fun to wear."
Even though my mind felt numb it was working surprisingly well. I realized that I was in a double-bind situation. If I pursued her, how could I also buy the fabric? I was not ready to admit that I was buying it to masturbate with, and while I really did have the more noble cause of buying it for my girlfriend I could not see how I could have it turned into a pair of skin-tight pants. My girlfriend did not sew, and even if I could find someone willing to do the work, who would attempt to make something so fitted for a girl thousands of miles away? I decided to make a play for this girl and hope that the other options would somehow remain open.
"Are pants like that hard to make?" I asked.
"Not really. The fabric is hard to handle because it is so slippery, and you have to use the right thread and a zig-sag stitch, but girls who sew know about those things. The only thing special about it is the amount of fabric it takes. A lot more than regular pants. But if you make four-seam legs you can lay out the pattern with less waste. I used two and a half yards, but I know some girls who did it in two by making the legs not as wide."
"Do you consider them casual or dressy? Like , would you wear them on a date?"
"Oh, they're very dressy, but you can use them for casual occasions, too. Several of my girlfriends have worn them to school -- perhaps you saw one of them. And yes, I did wear mine on a date, just last night. My boyfriend really liked them, too."
I saw her eyes gleam in that -you-know-what-I-mean look, but the balloon that had swollen inside my chest to the point where I could hardly breath suddenly burst at hearing the terrible words "my boyfriend."
Struggling to recover, I decided to push the conversation a bit harder. I reached out and caressed the fabric, then said, "It feels so nice to touch. It must feel nice to wear."
"Oh. Uh, yeah," she stammered. "It's very sensuous."
I must have struck a nerve, because she started to blush a little.
"Some girls don't like it. I find that strange, but they say that it feels too slippery. I think it's fun to wear something that feels so good and looks so sexy."
As she spoke she picked up a bolt and flipped it a few times, unrolling about three feet of the shimmering blue stuff, then stuck out her arm and draped the loose end over it.
"You see how nicely it drapes?" she cooed. "I can't think of a nicer way to spend an evening than wearing something made of this. I like my pants so much that I'm making a matching top, with dolman sleeves, real loose fitting with elastic at the bottom so it will fall really soft at the waist. I'm sure that if you buy some for your girlfriend she'll love wearing it, just as much as I do."
Her smile was killing me. Her words were like some kind of magic spell. In the nicest possible way she had also clarified our relationship and put me on the spot. She was not offering herself to me, only offering to have me share the pleasure this fabric brought her with the woman in my life, the assumption being that I had one.
What I should have done at that point was to confess my predicament at having a girlfriend so far away, and solicit her help in sewing an outfit for her. As well as my mind was working it was not working that well -- the thought did not occur to me.
What I did was to ask her to sell me enough to make a pair of really wide bell bottoms. I even asked her to pick out the right thread. She showed me the pattern to use, but we decided to let her come in and pick the size. I didn't bother to tell her how impossible that would be.
As I drive home I was struck by a profound sense of guilt. I had blown a small fortune on the fabric, more than I spent on a week's worth of groceries. So much that I did not have enough to buy my girlfriend some pants if they came in very soon. I knew very well that I had really bought it for myself, and failing to keep the promise I had made to myself hurt.
While working through heavy traffic I slid the folded mass of nylon out of the sack and caressed it, hoping that feeling it once more would soothe my feelings. I liked the way it sparkled in the sunlight, but it did not feel very special. My stomach knotted as I considered the possibility that I had spent all that money on a piece of fabric that looked right but would not feel as good as I imagined.
When I got home I rushed around closing the curtains, stripped naked, pulled the heavy piece of fabric out of the sack, flung it open and threw it around me like a cape.
I was stunned. Totally shocked. Nothing I had experimented with before then felt anywhere close to the way it felt. All the fantasies I had grown up with flooded over me, along with confused images of the woman in my class and the salesgirl I had just been with. I wish I could report that my cock sprung to life, instantly hard and eager to play, but the moment was too full of emotion for that. I waked around my apartment in a daze, soaking up the incredible sensation of the heavy nylon jersey caressing my bare skin, trying to comprehend how a woman could stand to wear anything that felt so good.
My ultimate fantasy was that it feel ticklish, and to me it did. Very ticklish. Not enough to provoke laughter, but more than enough to make the prospect of spending all day in something made of the stuff seem like self torture.
It must have taken a good half hour for the adrenaline rush to subside, and for my mind to go from a whirling storm of fantasy images to one more settled. Shifting between the woman at school in her pants and white silk blouse, and the woman at the store in her pants and matching top, I imagined myself in their place, on a date with me as myself. Gradually my arousal built, until my cock was rubbing against the fabric and turning my knees to jelly.
I wanted so badly to masturbate wearing the fabric, but I clung to my goal of saving it for my girlfriend. When I could not stand waiting any longer I laid it across my pillow, slipped into a nylon nightgown, and wanked myself to joyous oblivion, ecstatic that at long last I had found my Holy Grail.
My resolve did not last more than a week. I allowed myself to give in to my craving by promising myself that if I did not find a pair of pants, or something equally suitable made of the same kind of fabric, I would buy another piece and have it sewn into something. I doubt that anyone without a similar fetish can appreciate the intensity of my desire to spew cum all over my piece of fabric. The best way I can describe it is to imagine a straight guy who longs to have sex with a woman but who only goes out with her and then masturbates while she watches from across the room, even though she is quite willing to have sex with him. What is significant is the notion of consummation. The tactile pleasure of sex with a partner is not very different than when masturbating alone. In fact, oftentimes we can "do" ourselves better than a partner. The difference is emotional. All it takes is the addition of a partner, yet the changes in the emotional content are great and so complex as to defy explanation. For me, nothing beats sex with a woman, but sex involving my fetish comes very close in that it is supercharged with emotion.
One of the best things that ever happened to me occurred as a result of my decision to pleasure myself with this big piece of nylon jersey. I quickly discovered that simply wearing it did not feel very special. The key that unlocked its tactile erotic quality was to have it slide over the skin. I would drape it around me like an Indian sari and walk around the house, letting to sensual, ticklish feel of it bring me to the boiling point, but for a time I was at a loss as to how to continue that experience while masturbating. One day I happened to be laying naked face up on my big, four-poster bed and drifted into a fantasy about a woman tied spread-eagled in the same position while I tickled her by dragging the fabric over her body. I grabbed the fabric, threw it out over me and acted it out. It felt fantastic, but it took too much work. In order to tease myself I had to keep tossing it out, like a waiter throwing a tablecloth over a table. Each toss only provided a few seconds of ticklish teasing, and I could not build up a head of steam. I wanted to feel it sliding over my cock, too, but it took both hands to draw it smoothly up my body and my cock just does not point straight up at the ceiling no matter how hard my erection.
Suddenly I was struck with inspiration, which was to use gravity to pull it back down. To do this I moved to where my ass was at the edge of the bed and my feet on the floor. With my legs spread wide I could drag the fabric up over me, and it would slide back down as long as I did not pull it up too far. Best of all, it slid perfectly over my cock.
I cannot think of any better way to describe this technique other than sublime self torture. The sensation of the fabric sliding over my cock was so intense I could hardly stand it, yet the pressure was too light to induce orgasm in anything less that thirty minutes. At first I could not stand it long enough to reach orgasm that way and would finally give in and stroke my rod to finish off. Eventually I found the fortitude to resist giving in, mostly by immersing myself deeply in the fantasy role of a woman whom I tortured the same way. I would get a huge rush thinking about her suffering the same mind-blowing experience while bound and helpless to make it stop, and the longer I held out the bigger the rush. Eventually I learned that I could reach orgasm that way, and as torturous as the experience was the end result was profoundly satisfying.
All spring I was engaged in a war of wits, caught between waiting for the right item of clothing to appear in a store and buying another piece of fabric. Nothing showed up in the stores, while the supply of blue Qiana slowly dwindled. My feverish mind would sometimes interpret my failure to find slinky bell bottoms in stores as a sign that women found them too sexy looking, or too sensuous or even too ticklish to wear, and at other times as proof of how popular they were in that the moment the pants came in they sold out.
The fact that women did like them was evidenced by their increasing appearance on campus. I never had the full melt-down fetish sighting experience like I had the first time, but on the other hand I went around with a permanent case of whiplash because every time I spotted a girl in blue bell bottoms my head would spin around like the little girl in the movie "The Exorcist." Ninety-nine percent of the time they were made of heavy polyester, which even though sparkled like my beloved Qiana had none of the tactile quality so important to me.
I did see several more excellent examples. They were always worn by cute little Japanese-American girls with terrific figures, never larger than a size seven, girls who looked fresh and spotless, with perfect make-up and long, shiny hair. Adorable girls who broke my heart to look at, each one a personification of my ideal woman. I tried several times to approach one, to execute a successful pick-up, but I was always rebuffed with a sweet but contemptuous brush-off. Once I tried a different approach, to use such an occasion to find a source so that I could buy a pair for my girlfriend. I walked right up to her, a cute little pixie of a girl, and while fighting off the overwhelming desire to proposition her I told her about my quest and asked where she had bought her pants. She chuckled in a way that could only mean that she knew very well why I wanted pants like that for my girlfriend, and her reply almost made me feint. She explained almost apologetically that she made them herself, from fabric she had bought at -- can you guess? -- Musashiya! I was standing there talking to a girl about her pants and they were made out of the exact same fabric that I played with practically every night, and that drove me to the highest pinnacles of sexual pleasure attainable.
I am embarrassed to admit that one day I copped a feel of a girl's ass, just to experience touching a woman wearing pants like that. I had gone into a snack bar to buy lunch and spotted two girls standing in line, both wearing slinky bell bottoms. One blue, the other brown. The girl in blue had that perfect little body, while her friend was tall and skinny, wide hipped but without much of an ass and definite not as cute. Instantly I changed course, abandoning my plan to go to the back of the long line, in order to get a closer look. When I was about ten feet from them I could see clearly that the blue pants were made out of the exact same fabric as mine, while the brown pair were made out of an almost as slinky but complete un-noteworthy polyester. An idea popped into my head, and without thinking about it I just did it. I walked straight towards them, aiming to cut through the line between them and the person just behind them. I put on an act of being clumsy and awkward, moving quickly and forcing myself between them without slowing down, while zeroing in on the ass of the girl in blue. I was holding some books in my right hand, which I had placed at my right hip, and just as I passed behind her I reached out slightly so that the back of my hand brushed against her ass.
It was absolute heaven. It had been months since I had touched a woman. She felt so incredibly soft! To top it off, I could clearly feel the smooth, cold sensation of the nylon that I had come to know so intimately. It was an indescribable moment, steeped with pleasure, but I urge anyone reading this not to behave as I did. It really is not fair to the woman, no matter how innocent it may seem.
I hadn't planned on it, but the act of making contact with her ass caused me to drop my books. As they floated in slow motion to the floor I heard the girl shriek, a cute little yelp that sounded too much like choked-back laughter. I knelt down to pick them up, mumbling an apology, and was greeted by the sight of her pants just inches from my face. The soft folds that had been hanging limply from her knees had been whipped into a whirling, flashing ocean of slithering, jiggling blue. I looked up to apologize again, and found myself looking directly up at her crotch. I could see the other girl's, too, but while her pants hung decorously some small fraction of an inch below her cunt, the blue pants were like all the others, drawn skin tight up against the soft mound of her cunt and with the crotch seam pulled deep in-between her labia.
Both girls were staring down at me. The one in brown looked angry, but not the one in blue. She looked as though she had drawn in a big breath of air and was trying to see how long she could hold it, while her eyes were wide with surprise. To this day I cannot think of a better explanation for the look on her face than that my hand had felt very ticklish against her ass, and that the swirling fabric, set in motion by her automatic reaction to spin around and see who had touched her there, was still tickling her legs. Maybe, maybe not, but I love to think that was the cause.
As the spring semester drew to a close and my trip to join up with my girlfriend for the summer grew near, and faced with a complete lack of anything suitable in the stores, I overcame my intense shyness and asked a mutual friend if she could make a dress for my girlfriend. The job of asking her was made easier due to her turning up at a party in a very nice printed jersey dress. I went over to her and spun out a story about how much I wanted to give a dress like hers to my girlfriend, and that all I could find was the fabric. It turned out that she had made hers, for the very same reason, and she offered to do the job. When I went to buy the fabric I had a little set-back, in that the only remaining bolt of blue did not have enough to make a long dress. I did not want a short dress, so I opted for the yellow. It turned out very nice, a simple sheath that hung from the shoulders by little tie strings and with a bit of elastic at the waist, a design chosen to work without relying on an exact fit.
One of the sweetest moments in my life was the first time my girlfriend tried it on. I gave her the dress and some other gifts as soon as we got to her apartment. She was pleased with everything, but most of all the dress. She set it aside without putting it on, claiming she was too sticky and gritty from the long ride. Soon we both took a bath, which transitioned directly to being totally naked and lots of hugging and kissing. Acting as though it was a spontaneous idea I pulled away and suggested that she try on the dress, before she got all sticky again. She laughed, but agreed. I was in heaven, because I had been so concerned about how to convince her to try it on without underwear.
It the slippery, slithery fabric slid down instantly over her head. As soon as her head appeared she had the most amazing expression on her face, and mixture of shock and delight. She gasped, then made a cute little moaning sound that was almost a giggle. With a big, silly grin she looked at me and exclaimed, "It feels so good! What the hell is this stuff?"
I held her in my arms and kissed her, drinking in not only the sorely missed feel of a woman but the now familiar sensation of the nylon. It was so much better to see it on a woman, to have it be her dress tickling my skin and not what I wore. Tentatively I drew my hands back and grazed the nylon covering her ribs with my fingertips. In all the times we had been together this was the first time I had tried to tickle her, a direct result of months of convincing myself that I had to reveal this part of me. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, my mind consumed with fear that she would not react, that it would not feel ticklish.
We were still kissing, very wildly. Her first reaction was to make a muffled mewing sound while our mouths were still pressed together. A split second later she pulled her head back and let out a shriek, then lurched away from me while leaving her arms around my neck.
"Wow! That feels incredibly ticklish!," she cried.
I drew her in close and kissed her, even more passionately than before. My cock had sprung to full attention, and I was treated to the long awaited sensation of feeling it brushing against the smooth, cold fabric of the dress she wore. Clutching her tightly to me with my left arm I tickled her ribs again with my right hand, covering her mouth with mine to stifle her screams.
Her body went berserk, but I felt her arms draw tightly around my neck and her face pressing even harder against mine while her tongue went crazy inside my mouth. After a few seconds she pulled her face away and turned to the side as an eruption of laughter poured out of her even while her arms clung to my neck as if she were drowning.
I began to use a start-stop technique, spending no more than a second at each spot, testing her belly, ass, and thighs. It hardly mattered where I touched her, she always reacted with lots of squirming and loud whoops of laughter. The fact that she still clung to me so tightly and steadfastly refused to pull away made my already profound love of her even stronger. After about a minute of this I zoomed in on her cunt, pressing her dress in-between her thighs and feeling for the opening through the fabric. She let out a huge scream and pulled away. I can still recall vividly how she looked, bent over at the waist with her hips pulled back, as if trying to get her cunt as far from me as possible, and her arms held out in a defensive position as if to ward off any further attack.
"Not there!" she gasped. "It's too much. Really unbearable. I'll go insane."
I grabbed one of her wrists and yanked her roughly to me, pinning her against me.
She looked imploringly into my face and whispered, "No more tickling. Especially in this dress. Please!"
I kissed her, hard, and granted her wish. She pulled away again, reached down and grabbed my cock.
"I think it's time to do something about this," she murmured.
To my astonishment she stuck out one knee slightly and began rubbing the tip of my cock nice and hard over the fabric.
"How does that feel? Nice?" she cooed.
What could I say? For almost half a year my favorite form of stimulation had been exactly that. The sensation was both familiar and new, deriving as it did from her action rather than mine and including the indescribable joy of knowing that it came from the dress she wore. I was too embarrassed to give any hint that I had experienced anything similar, but my act of total surprise was largely factual because it felt so different.
Just when I had gotten over my surprise and began to settle into it she stopped, and in one quick motion pulled her dress up over her head and flung it over a chair. My mind spun in a conflict between despair and rapture, because suddenly I was looking at her lithe young body completely nude. Those same months that had brewed my taste for experiencing extreme pleasure by rubbing my cock against nylon jersey had left me famished for the sight of a naked woman, and suddenly there she was.
In the days that followed I expected both a replay of our tickling play and to have her wear the dress out. When I suggested that she put it on before bedtime she would refuse, claiming that she did not want to get it dirty before she wore it out. When I suggested she wear it out to dinner she would balk, claiming it was too dressy. Day after day, week after week this tug-of-war continued, and the longer it went on the more frustrated I got. Finally it was time for me to return to school, and she had never worn it again. Worse still, in my opinion, she did not bring it back when she came home after finishing school, her excuse being that she did not want her parents to see it.
It was about a year later, after she had left me, that slinky bell bottom pants finally showed up big-time in Honolulu. That would be around 1977. For a good three years or so you could walk into any of several better dress shops and find them. I found two designers that were sold here during that time, Manning Silver (sold at Carol & Mar's) and Rina (sold at Ethel's, McInerny, and Liberty House). They used identical fabric, the most sensual feeling stuff I've ever worn. Rina had the widest bells and the best fit, exactly what I had seen almost three years earlier on campus.
Talk about frustration. I had a hard time getting back on track after my girlfriend left me, and by the time I found a woman willing to play with my fetish, women had abandoned the bell bottom look and Rina had gone to a straight-legged, loose-fitting pajama style pant. I am happy to report that I did talk her into acting out my fantasy. I dressed her in a pair of black Rina pants and matching top, strung her arms up over her head, and tickled her out of her mind by running my fingers over the fabric. She did not come that way, but she sure did when I pushed my Hitachi Magic Wand vibe between her legs.
She declined to do it again, though, proclaiming it to be too much like torture, but she did admit that it felt like what I had described. Just wearing the outfit turned her on, both from the way it felt and the way it made her look, but she knew what it was doing to me and that contributed something, too. What I appreciated even more was her admission that stroking her through the fabric tickled a lot, in a very erotic way. She said that if I ever found a woman who enjoyed tickling torture she would love wearing clothes like that.
A few weeks later she agreed to act out another fantasy of mine, a long walk on a secluded beach, late and night, wearing the Rina outfit without any underwear. About fifteen minutes into it she stopped to show me that the crotch seam had pulled well up into her labia, and soon afterwards she began to moan when the selvage began rubbing her clit. A hundred yards later she said she could not go on, because she was on the brink of an orgasm. I guided her to a stand of palm trees, embraced her, and as we kissed I reached down and stroked her crotch. She melted into a long orgasm, shuddering against me and almost collapsing onto the sand. On the long walk back to the car she kept stumbling, her knees having turned to jelly, and she came several more times. Later she said that it had been the most erotic experience of her life, but even so she considered the ordeal too much like torture to ever do again.
As happy as I am that a some of my ideas worked so well, I was frustrated at not having a partner who enjoyed being tickled. She felt it, too. Whether because of that or other reasons I'll never be sure, but we broke up a few months later.