Dream of Early Spring
It was just a dream — a random, amusing, and light erotic fantasy (without porn) about two students who accidentally met on a trolleybus in early spring, about a fleeting but piercing intimate contact and a gentle parting.
*****
The alarm clock rang, time to get up. Well, I really don't want to, my head is foggy and heavy — I guess I'll snooze for another 10 minutes, I'll make it. I sink back into a viscous drowsiness, and for no apparent reason, strange associative images begin to swirl before my eyes...
March has come to the city. The dripping icicles began to sing. The sky soared. Winter is already saying goodbye to the streets, and the air rings with the anticipation of life being reborn.
Scenes of my hometown flash before my eyes. I'm about 20, still studying at the university, and now I'm riding on a trolleybus, on the left-hand back seat. The cabin gradually fills with people (moderately so, without a real crowd), and right in front of me, a young girl sits down on the sideways-facing seat by the wall.In a dream, people's facial features are usually somewhat blurred, but I seem to catch something vaguely familiar. She is slightly above average height, thin, with light blonde hair tied in a ponytail and gray eyes; her skin is clear, thin, delicate, and spring-pale. Such a modest young doll with a slightly wary look — probably a freshman, possibly even a virgin or with very modest intimate experience. She is still dressed for winter, but in a somewhat lighter version: a blue, medium-length jacket, no hat, warm blue tights (I don't see a skirt) and high light brown boots.
I'm a bit squeezed into the corner, my legs don't fit straight because of the closely placed side seat, so I sit half-turned towards the trolleybus's rear door. The girl-neighbor sits with her right side towards me, leaning slightly away from the seat back and placing her hands on the bag lying on her lap. During the next jolt of the trolleybus, the palm of my left hand, searching for support, passes under the stranger's elbow and quite naturally lands on the upper part of the thigh of her right leg, the one closer to me (between the bag and the open jacket).
Of course, I immediately remove it, but after a while, the same light, accidental touch repeats. And in my head, a tempting demon begins to stir a thought: "She's not reacting to my touches at all, she's not indignant, maybe I should try..." (I know perfectly well that girls in transport don't always react negatively to accidental touches from fellow passengers and sometimes even provoke them, especially if they find those passengers attractive).
With the tips of my fingers, very, very carefully and terribly embarrassed by my own actions, I now quite consciously touch the girl's thigh, a little further; during a sway of the trolleybus, I slightly lift my palm to touch my neighbor's leg again, now with all my finger phalanges, then a little higher; finally, I cover her thigh with my entire palm and freeze. She doesn't react. My heart aches with sweet premonitions, and my hand, still lightly, slightly lifting and lowering again, with absolutely no pressure, millimeter by millimeter, but with increasing confidence, begins to move upward, there...
My mind seems to understand that this is already too much, and my carelessness could ruin everything, but I can't stop anymore — my hand is drawn like a magnet. My gaze is directed somewhere at my own knees, I'm afraid to even look at the girl, I'm doing everything as if by accident (and honestly, I'm ashamed). However, a kind of fog is swirling before my eyes anyway. And the stranger still doesn't react.
Smoothly, I slide my palm into the crevice between her legs, shift a little higher, again, and there... my fingers encounter a soft obstacle; with another light press, I confirm that this is indeed the limit (now it's clear that she really isn't wearing a skirt). And then, through the adrenaline haze, a thought strikes my consciousness sharply: "But this is..., it can't be..., how is this possible..., why is she allowing all this?!"
Still not raising my eyes to the girl's face, but shifting my gaze to my hand, I see that the stranger's posture and our mutual positioning really allow me to do my deed very simply and conveniently (and no one else sees it, as the nearest passengers shield us from the others, and they themselves, standing, are looking out the window; and the girl's hands lying on top of the bag partially hide my actions).
I begin to carefully, like a sapper, feel for my prize. It is so modest, so simple, and so banal — just a small fold of flesh, covered by panties and the thick fabric of tights. But all this is insignificant, because I know WHAT exactly is hidden there, under my hand! Later, in a calmer state, I could probably understand that I had only felt the top of the outer labia and possibly the edges of the inner ones. But now my blood sings with delight, absorbing monstrous doses of testosterone, sings from the whole wild strangeness of this situation, from the unexpected accessibility of the victim, and from my own audacity.
First very lightly, and then, increasing the pressure a little, I massage the intimate mound of my random companion, my unexpected gift. Well, why isn't she reacting at all?! Unable to bear it, I raise my eyes to her face... How can I convey to you the impressive spectrum of emotions that appeared before my gaze...? Have you ever seen sleepwalkers: a glassy gaze directed into emptiness, a relaxed but purposeful expression. No, not like that. Imagine a very drunk girl, with a last effort of will trying to maintain dignity and posture, to keep direction and remember what exactly she needs to do now.
So, my stranger was also as if in some kind of trance, swaying slightly back and forth, closing and opening her eyes again. And I myself was literally mesmerized by this incredible sight, staring at her in amazement. After sitting like that for another minute under my continuous stimulation of her main erogenous zone, the girl began slowly, with continuous weak swaying, to turn towards me. Probably, at that moment, the thought began to seep little by little into her hormone-stunned consciousness that she still remembered the source of this mental shock, she remembered where her partner (fellow traveler, friend, brother, master!) was.
This bewitching picture will probably stand before my eyes for a long time. This enchanted face, swaying with the expression of a snake charmer hypnotized by the instrument, approaching me agonizingly slowly, by microns, yearning, calling. These lips, slightly parted, unconsciously searching for something. I mechanically lean towards her, not even understanding what I'm doing and why. A few moments later, her lips, resembling a hungry, plaintively milk-seeking blind kitten, touch my face and, briefly wandering in different directions, run over it unseeingly.
A few seconds later, the stranger's lips bump into mine, slide wetly over them, move away a little and press again, exploring, studying. First with one, and then with both hands, the girl grabs the sleeves of my jacket, with a strength unexpected for such a fragile creature, persistently pulling me towards her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the stunned expressions on the neighbors' faces, perfectly understanding their condition — they saw that until now we were not together, each on our own, and suddenly such strange behavior. Well, to hell with them. And with decency too, because I'm not going to miss such a gift from fate.
The lips of my accidental partner — soft and inexperienced, but instinctively greedy; superficial kisses fairly quickly turn into deep ones, allowing me to feel her sharp and warm little tongue. The girl's hands gradually move from the sleeves of my jacket to my shoulders, and then completely wrap around my neck. Discarding all remaining thoughts of any propriety, I remove my hand from her crotch and, supporting my companion, completely surrender to the pleasure offered to me.
You must agree, without the slightest preliminary courtship and hassle, getting the opportunity to kiss passionately with a completely random, pretty stranger is pleasant in itself, and even more so if she does it with such selfless rapture. Only one thing worried me for a couple of seconds (and, by the way, almost woke me up) — the thought of a two-day stubble, which somehow whimsically seeped into my dream from reality (she'll get pricked!). But with a cunning intuitive feint, convincing myself that this was all nonsense, and here I am freshly shaved with a trusty Gillette, I managed to balance on the edge of the dream, slipping back to the raspberry taste of my neighbor's lips.
Some time flies by in such enjoyment, and then I notice how the movement of her lips slows down a little, her eyes open slightly, clear up a bit, and a still vague, silent question lights up in them. Deciding to prolong my moment of pleasure a little more and give the girl a small dose of hormones, I put my left hand between her legs again, trying to catch the folds of her labia between my fingers and rub them together, but accidentally my fingers slip off, apparently shifting the edge of her panties, sliding and poking right into the slit.
From the unexpected and too strong impulse, the girl shudders, briefly, a little louder than she should have, gasps and exclaims: "No!" — reflexively jerks away from me a little, looks with a cleared, frightened gaze (I also become disappointingly alert, removing my hand from her pussy), but after a few seconds still clings to me again, weakly pressing her face to my shoulder, kisses me several times out of inertia and without the former enthusiasm and whispers again: "Don't. No more." And falls silent. We are both embarrassed and silent.
Finally, suddenly perking up, the stranger raises her eyes to me, then looks out the window, again at me, and uncertainly says: "I... I'm getting off now... And you? You're not getting off?" Well, would you believe it, she even uses the formal "you" (?!) — it's actually a very piquant feeling if a girl you've just caressed and kissed addresses you that way. She probably really is very young. In principle, I really should go further now, but I can't just spoil the integrity of such an unexpected erotic adventure so easily, so we head for the exit together.
After getting off the trolleybus, the girl hesitates confusedly at the stop, glancing at me. I literally read the thoughts tormenting her from her face as if from an open book: "What was that? Who is he? What to do now?" It seems she is seriously concerned that I, although seemingly a completely random guy, am now somehow not quite a stranger to her; now, since I caressed her most intimate place and kissed her very intimately in front of many people, I probably have certain moral rights to her. Well, as a girlfriend, she's not really needed by me at all, we just accidentally gave each other a few pleasant minutes, which will remain for both of us as good and bright memories.
But I need to put a logical point in this story somehow, so I smile reassuringly, ask where she needs to go, and, putting my arm around her, gently but firmly push her in that direction and firmly insist: "I'll walk you."
As far as I remember the outlines of the streets of my hometown, we are now heading towards the School of Arts, which means my companion is not even eighteen yet. The time segment of the walk is remembered rather vaguely: we chat about this and that, gradually relaxing and calming down, I think I even manage to learn her name, or maybe not — it doesn't matter. Reaching the corner of the building, the girl stops, again filled with doubts.
But I have already made a clear decision for myself, so, admiring the miniature young figure for another minute, I gently take her light head in my hands, look into her expectantly wide-open eyes under fluffy eyelashes, enjoy the tenderness of her fragrant lips for a few more seconds, then kiss her on the forehead, turn her around, and pat her on the bottom, pushing her towards the school: "Goodbye. And good luck to you!"
Walking a few steps out of inertia, the girl turns around, looks at me confusedly, clearly with some disappointment, but also with relief; uncertainly, half-turned, she backs away. I smile at her, wink, and wave. She smiles back, wider and bolder with each second, also waves, and takes a few more steps away from me; then, thinking for a moment, stops, runs back to me again and, wrapping her arms around my neck, with a light involuntary moan, plants a juicy kiss on my lips; laughs foolishly, chirps cheerfully: "Bye," — and almost skips away; already from the very doors of the school, turning around once more and smiling from ear to ear, waves to me for the last time with both hands.
That's it, now I remembered her, in reality this stranger's face belonged to a beginning English teacher, who tried one-on-one to teach me this language (so, actually, what does the School of Arts have to do with it? What strange quirks the subconscious has). I watch the girl with my gaze, take a deep and happy breath, turn around, and, terribly pleased, go about my business.
And outside, spring is beginning. The air is filled with moisture and movement. Life goes on...
The dream ended, and outside the window it's already getting light. I wake up with a light and fresh head, my body overflowing with energy literally throws me out of bed. The day promises to be successful.
Author's e-mail: iskаtеl-s@inbоx.ru