The high school I attended had a terrific majorette squad. I recall watching something like two dozen gorgeous girls at pep rallies, parades and football games performing precision marching routines while spinning their batons and throwing them into the air.
The years may have exaggerated the size of the squad and how pretty the girl's were, but nothing will change my memory of their uniforms. They were dark blue satin. At the time I thought that the extremely short skirt was attached to the tight fitting top, a one-piece mini dress of sorts, and that they wore a matching satin brief under them. Years later I realized that the design was probably more like a leotard with an attached skirt.
Ten years had passed since my first fetish sighting of two little girls in yellow satin dresses, and at the same time the same two girls in dark blue silk dresses. During those ten years I had never seen girls my age wearing satin except for extremely rare, one-time sightings at church or birthday parties. The first time I saw our majorette team, in the fall of my freshman year, I nearly passed out. The fact that I saw them several times a month after that, and saw the girls at school every day, made the whole scene rich with fetish energy.
One night that fall I attended a football game in which our team were the visitors. My friends and I arrived at the field a little early, just in time to see the buses arrive that carried the band, the cheerleaders, and the majorettes. We were sitting on what had once been a telephone pole which now lay on its side acting as a parking stall marker, not more than ten feet from the majorettes' bus, and I watched in total awe as one by one they stepped down onto the grass. Every time one of them came down the steps her skirt was blown upwards, giving me a clear view of their most sacred place, that shrine of mysteries still unexplored, a smooth, softly bulbous "V" sheathed in tight, shiny blue satin. As if that was not enough to drive me insane with desire, more than a few of their luscious crotches had that little furrow in the center, and on at least two of the girls it looked quite deep.
My friend leaned over and whispered, "Don'cha just wish they weren't wearing nuthin' under them skirts?" He and the other guys all hooted and howled over that, but not me. By then I knew I was different than most guys, and this was just one more example. It was much more exciting to me to see that the girls were wearing tight satin briefs, because it meant that if I could ever be alone with one I could tickle her there.
The fantasy I developed from this episode is quite unlike anything else from that time. It was too bizarre for there to be any possibility that it could happen, and tinged with elements of rape that I generally found not to my liking.
I cast myself as the bus driver. Not the usual old cigar chompping fat man, but a good looking guy in his early twenties, the kind of guy that girls fell to pieces over. My bus was not a typical school bus, more like the ones used for public transportation. It was air conditioned, and the windows were heavily tinted so that even with the interior lights on nobody could see inside, even at night.
During the game the majorettes' chaperone became ill, so when the game was over there was nobody else on the bus. The ride back to our school took an hour or more. I was careful to be the last bus to leave, and carefully let my bus slip back from the others until we were alone on the dark, deserted road.
I pulled off onto a narrow side road which eventually rejoined the main road. Safely out of sight I stopped. The girls all stared at me in terror, thinking that I was going to rape and murder all of them. I ordered them to hand me all their batons and move all the way to the back of the bus, which they did without hesitation.
From a storage compartment I took out a bunch of rope that was used to tie extra baggage to the roof. Using my trusty Swiss Army knife I began to cut the rope into short lengths and used them to bind the batons to the stainless steel tubing that ran along the backs of the seats. Each baton went from the back of one seat to the back of the next, right next to the isle.
I called for the head majorette to come forward, assuring her that I was not going to hurt her. I bound her wrists behind her back, had her crawl under the first baton, step up onto the seat, them guided her leg over the baton as though she were mounting a horse. The shaft of polished chrome baton was covered in smooth indentations, and I was careful to ensure that these were positioned at the spot where her cunt settled over the shaft. The rough idle of the bus's diesel engine made the whole bus vibrate, especially the backs of the seats. This vibration was passed along through the batons to her cunt, which added still more to her pleasure.
To make sure she would not fall off I tied one end of a rope to the one around her wrists, and the other end to the tubing above her head that was normally the hand-hold for standing passengers. In this position she did not have enough strength in her arms to take any weight off her crotch, but if she started to topple off the rope would catch her. I also made sure that her feet were not on the seat, and tied the ends of a short piece of rope to each ankle after passing the rope around the seat's leg so that she could not lift her knees up very high.
One by one I repeated the process with each girl. When I was done I could look down the isle and see it lined on both sides with the cutest girls imaginable wearing shiny blue satin and sitting on shiny chrome tubes that dug deeply into their satin covered cunts. They looked like a bizarre version of church pews decorated for a wedding.
I never thought that this would feel painful. I imagined that it would feel very, very good. I liked to imagine the girls struggling with how to react, whether to show their humiliation at having their cunts played with in so outrageous a manner or to reveal that it felt really good.
The predicament got worse when I started to walk down the isle and tickle them. I always imagined that tickling a girl wearing fabric like satin would feel much more ticklish than just bare skin, that the fabric itself tickled her wherever it touched her and at the same time amplified the tickling sensations produced my roving fingertips. I found tickling to be highly arousing, and assumed that most people reacted the same way but just did not talk about it.
One by one I stopped and tickled a girl, not in any order, trying to surprise the one who was next. I began with her sides, and when she was too exhausted to struggle I would pull down the zipper at the back of her dress, cut through her bra straps with my knife and pull it free. When I zipped up the zipper and the cold satin molded itself to her naked breasts she would squeal and laugh, just as if I had touched them with ice cubes, but when I began to lightly scratch the satin covering her nipples she would explode with laughter and writhe in agony. Her contortions made her cunt grind against the slick, nubbly baton shaft, flooding her with wonderful pleasure that she was incapable of stopping.
After several minutes of having her nipples tickled I would add to her suffering by tickling her crotch with my other hand. First came the electrifying moment when I lifted her skirt, then my fingers would slowly tickle their way down the smooth satin "V" until I was right over her clit. For several more minutes she would go mad from having her nipples tickled by one hand and her clit with the other, until she let out scream and her body began to shudder from her first orgasm. What would turn out to be the first of many that night.
After each girl had gotten this treatment I ran up and down the isle, tickling them at random, trying to keep them all laughing like a circus performer who keeps a bunch of plates spinning atop long poles. As the girls became accustomed to the pleasure they were experiencing they began to complain if I waited too long before visiting them. The scene became total bedlam, with me running up and down the isle and the girls either screaming with laughter or begging me to do them next, and to stay until they came again.
When I was too exhausted to continue I announced that it was time to leave. All of the girls howled in dismay, demanding to be tickled some more. To satisfy their demands I produced a set of heavy, chrome plated chains roughly four feet in length, one for each girl. At one end of each chain I had attached a short, thick bolt that passed through a small metal plate. The tip of the bolt stuck out about a quarter of an inch from the plate, and the end was machined to a dull, polished point. I went down the isle, cutting more bits of rope and using it to tie the chain to the bar over their heads, carefully adjusting the length so that the point of the bolt dangled against the top of their cunt, right over their clit. The small plate was there to keep the bolt aimed at their crotch.
I put the bus into gear, released the brakes, and began to drive down the narrow road. My ears were filled with screams and howls of laughter. The bouncing bus kept the chains dancing against their breasts and clits, so that for mile after mile they were driven repeatedly to the most sublime orgasms they had ever felt. Just before we reached the school I turned down another deserted road and untied them. Together we cleaned up the rest of the mess, and when we pulled into the parking lot all anyone saw was a bunch of exhausted girls and a bus that had broken down on the way home.
After that I was the only driver the majorettes wanted, and at each game they finagled some way to ditch their chaperone. To keep their parents from being suspicious they told them they would return from the game at least an hour later than the trip would take, to give us plenty of time to play our own game.
As always this basic theme had many variations. The strangest of them was when I imagined myself whipping the girls' tits with my leather belt. It was after I had removed their bra, but before their first orgasm. I liked to imagine the girl enduring intense sexual pleasure from her crotch, extreme ticklish torture from her uniform and the stinging pain of having her breasts whipped, all at the same time. A stew of erotic sensations that combined to overwhelm her. Finding so much pleasure in subjecting a girl to pain was difficult for me to accept for several more years.
When I was a junior I set myself the goal of dating one of the majorettes and making out with her when she was wearing her uniform. I actually did go steady with one for a month or two, a tall, well built blond, but after every game she went straight to the locker room and changed into regular clothes. I actually found it exciting that she refused to go out with me in her uniform, because it allowed me to think that she could not stand to be dressed in satin and be so close to a boy.
She did wear her uniform when I drove her to school for games, and even though all I got to do was put my arm around her it felt heavenly to feel my hand touching satin. One evening as she got out of the car I said something like "I promised to meet some friends at the hamburger place right after the game. One of them has to go home right away, so how about you skip changing after the game?" She looked at me rather sourly and said, "No way! I get really sweaty in this thing. You want your friends to puke on account of my BO?"
All through the first half I was pissed at her, but bless her heart she came and sat next to me after the half-time show and after the game we went straight to the drive-in without her changing. She got a lot of attention when she showed up dressed that way, not just from the other guys but from to two fat cops who hung around in the parking lot. I felt really cool.
After we had downed the regulation soda and fries we drove off, and I headed straight for my favorite make-out spot. When she realized what I had in mind she objected quite rigorously. "Not tonight. I'm sorry, but it's late, I'm exhausted, and this uniform is soaked with sweat. Some other time, OK?"
If I had only had the courage to say "But I want to be alone with you when you are wearing your uniform. It really turns me on to see you in it." At the time that seemed as impossible to say as admitting that I wanted to tie her up and tickle her for hours and fuck her until the sun came up. Or that I wanted to put on her uniform and see for myself how ticklish it really felt. I did try dropping a few hints that to me were obvious, like when I picked her up for a game and said, "Gee, you sure look great in that." She probably thought I just meant that she looked good compared to the other girls, and that it never occurred to her that her satin uniform made my blood boil.
As the football season came to a close in November I had given up any hope of playing with her in her uniform. I had almost given up hope of getting past first base with her, because even though she loved to park and smooch she only let me touch her bra for a few seconds and never allowed my hands anywhere near her crotch. Eventually I lost interest in her, but I am certain it was not because she was so coy about sex. It was only because I decided that she had no interest in wearing her uniform for me.