Daydream

Chris sat in the crowded lecture hall and tried to wrap his mind around a particular concept. The professor was mind-bogglingly dull, almost as if he was merely reciting the lecture from memory in a monotonous tone.

Chris found his eyes drifting to the bare thighs of a girl across the aisle.

Her shorts were of the style that somewhat resembled a short skirt, the pale-blue cloth draping loosely across her hips. It had only recently become warm enough to wear such light clothing, and Chris enjoyed seeing the newly exposed flesh of the college beauties. The skin of the girl’s thighs was smooth and still pale from the winter. She wore a translucent, gauzy blouse that covered her shoulders and Chris could see the white of her lacy bra underneath it. A couple of buttons appeared to have fallen open, and Chris could even see some of the bare skin of her cleavage through the gap.

The girl shifted suddenly in her seat, and Chris grew aware that he had been staring a little. Still, she wasn’t looking his way. The girl stretched out her arms over her head like a cat. Her blouse tightened against the contours of her breasts and the bare skin of her midriff played peek-a-boo under the hem of her blouse. She ran her thumbs up the nape of her neck and ran her fingers through her long hair, briefly, and turned her head towards Chris.

Chris averted his gaze. When he looked back, she was busy writing something carefully in a spiral-bound notebook that she rested on her crossed thighs. She had removed her sandals, and one bare foot bobbed in Chris’s direction.

Chris wondered if she sensed that he was looking, consciously or maybe even unconsciously.

Chris took a slow breath, which he freed from his lungs very slowly and smoothly, until he could feel his heart rate begin to slow. The lights of the hall became hazy in his eyes and seemed overly bright, but he continued the controlled breathing until he felt the warmth begin to spread down his abdomen and begin to radiate out into his limbs.

Again, Chris glanced over at the pale smooth skin of the girl’s thighs. But his eyes did not linger, this time. He simply recorded the image in his thoughts and let his eyes unfocus as he stared forward from where he was sitting...

Chris’s hand, neatly-trimmed nails, wide palms and long fingers...He feels the cool skin of her thigh beneath the warm palm of his hand. Her small hand, also warm, rests lightly on his. Plenty of time.

“Who are you?” She says, in Chris’s mind.

“I am...an admirer.” Chris admits.

“Why do you touch me?” She whispers. “My boyfriend would not approve.”

“He will not know this invisible touching.” Chris answers.

His hand slides down to her knee, down on the inside of her knee as he kneels before her. He must be halfway into the aisle, as there is not enough room between her knees and the chair in front of her. He rests his head in her lap, and she uncrosses her legs to better cradle his head between her thighs. His cheek is warm against her thighs, and her thighs are warm as well in the cool auditorium. Her hand rests on his head, and her fingers stroke his hair...

Chris’s eyes opened and he looked down at his watch. Another fifteen minutes. He glanced over at the girl across the aisle. Did she know what he was thinking? She also seemed to be lost in a fugue, staring forward in a daze. Her inert hand lay on the notebook across her knee, still holding a pen lightly between delicate finger and thumb. Her legs were uncrossed.

Chris whispers, “Do you share my thoughts?”

After a moment, an answer seems to enter Chris’s awareness. “Who are you?” she asks.

“You don’t know me, but perhaps we share...more than you might think.” Chris cannot imagine a likely answer. “We share an intimacy, perhaps.”

“I don’t know you.” She says—not insistingly, but merely in uncomprehending repetition.

Chris slides his hand on to her lap to grasp her delicate hand in his own. “But if I speak only to the unconscious mind...” Chris considers “Then this moment is everything. It is all. I alone retain awareness. If I were to rape your mind, would you feel it? Would you wake up crying in the middle of the night and not know why? Or would you continue on, oblivious to the mind residing inside of your own?”

There is no answer.

Chris kneels before her, turning her towards him. He wills her shorts away, and he slips his hands underneath the sides of her panties to grasp the flesh of her hips in his palms. He looks up at her face from his vantage point, and she glances down at him with blank detachment.

“Dammit!” He shouts. “Don’t look at me that way—as if I was not a person. I am here! I exist!” But her mind is stubborn.

Frustrated, Chris rips out the sides of her panties in a sweep of his hands, so that they fall to the seat underneath her. He feels a sharp involuntary gasp in his chest.

“Like a mother...your womb...giver of life...” Chris stares worshipfully at her nakedness. Her cunt is unshaven, but the cushion of fur around her groin does not hide her labia. They glisten and shine with a pink wetness. There is a wildness here that will not be tamed. Her furred cunt stands in stark contrast to the silky smooth skin of her thighs, hidden from the social norms that influence her visible self. Chris would like to bury himself in her, but instead he forms his mouth into a pout that cradles his extended tongue, like some crude imitation of an ape. She tastes, not sweet, but...somewhat bitter and salty with juices that glide like molasses and undulate into his open mouth. He wishes to swallow her spirit, the milk of her loins. He drinks of her essence.

Her thighs press against his cheeks, and he cradles her buttocks in his arms. Her back arches as she presses her groin to his mouth. One mouth gives life, and the other recieves it. But his tongue is a long, fleshly worm now. It extends inside of her—faceless and mute—reaching deep inside to press against the top of her vaginal walls, up deep into her belly, filling her with his essence until he is turning inside out and his tongue becomes his skin. He enters her with his whole body, now, like a child that has outgrown the womb and presses her from the inside. But he does not press against her, only into her, until his spiritual essence is mingled with her own. He dissolves himself inside of her, so that she is him and he is her.

She cries, not of religion or reason, but of that uniquely human ecstasy of both physical and existential fulfillment. It is a moment when she knows that she is a woman, and he knows that he is a man. It is a moment when the waves of tension explode into surf washing up on the shore of sensuality, and recede into a moment of peace...

Chris opened his eyes to the sounds of students stirring. He stood up among the babble of voices and reached down to grab his book bag. His pen slipped from his fingers, and fell down behind the seat. Sighing, Chris kneeled down and reached under the seat and felt around for the pen.

“Hey...uhmm....” A girl’s voice murmured near him.

Chris looked over from where he was kneeling to see a vaguely familiar pair of sandaled feet. Her toes had a coat of clear nail polish that was chipped in places. One thigh had a red patch on it where her legs had been crossed. As he stood up, Chris realized embarassedly that this was the girl. He felt his face flush.

“Hi. I...uh...” Chris stumbled.

“Hi.” The girl smiled. “I’m not trying to get up in your face, but I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”