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Erotic Stories / Independent Study
« on: August 02, 2013, 04:16:37 PM »
As I noted in my mutual masturbation post in Fantasies and Fetishes, there are those who already knew of my kink. Adera was one of them, the only still on, and she and I have had some truly wonderful playtimes together. Talking about them again we thought it might be fun to start a thread version of one, which not only allows me to indulge my fetish 
, but allows me to give a tangible example of how this works.
As a special note here, with any new partner rules would be discussed if only to make sure that they were understood. This will be RP, so they will not actually be mentioned once in character.
In the most basic form, we don't touch each other, we touch ourselves, and share in the enjoyment of doing so. A feast of the eyes, and a savoring of our own flesh.
***Here we go.***
Schools today take great pains to secure their computers to adult material, to varying degrees of success. Between the sheer pervasiveness of the subject matter, the need to allow the computers to actually access the internet, and the technical skills of student who have grown up in the Digital Age they were left with an ongoing, and up hill battle.
The printed page however had been forgotten by both students and staff alike. Titles like Nancy Friday's "My Secret Garden" likely bought thinking it was some sort of fairy tale, filed on a shelf, and forgotten.
A title that I was reading to greater, and greater distraction. Miss Friday's garden was metaphor for women's desires, real desires, shared with her, and put to print.
Printed pages that I was turning with my lone left hand as my right kept trying to defy my mind's orders to NOT touch stiffening nipples.
It certainly wasn't helping that the rest of my body was bombarding my mind with ever greater distractions.
A warmth rising to my skin that was so hot I was SURE it could be seen, either in reddened skin, or sweat I felt trying to form on my forehead.
A much richer moisture pooling between my thighs, soaking into my panties so much I feared what would be left behind once I stood up, matched by a throbbing between my legs matching the pounding of my heart that was overriding the fear of that wetness being left behind, the commands NOT to touch my nipples, and even the sense of where I was as all this was happening.
Yet once I stopped fighting it my brain became all too helpful. If I just leaned forward like I was sleeping my hot breasts could meet the cool surface of the table, and if I laid my left hand on top of my right there was no WAY someone could see that the bottom hand had slipped inside the top of my skirt (my brain even suggesting it would be less conspicuous if I did it that way rather then hike my skirt up).
My brain was also treacherous, overriding what little remained of my good sense by suggesting that no one ever came back here, that the printed page was truly dead, and no one would ever see.
It swore that everything would be just fine. It even said that it would be better if I did something for my state back here where no one comes rather then walking out where other students might find me and see what a state that damn book had put me in.
Part of me was trying to call all of that lies, but it couldn't he heard over the pulse in my chest, and the corresponding throbbing between my thighs.
Thighs that were now carefully opening to my slowly moving hand, and questing fingers.
My skirt felt a little binding near my wrist, but it kept my motions gentle as I slipped my hand under the waist of my panties, and my fingers into my own, damp heat.
At first I was afraid I would make a sound, but I couldn't breathe at all, my whole body locking up as my fingers found that core of my arousal, first digging in, sliding between grasping muscles before slipping out and up to circle my erect little clit.
My clit's response being to make stars swim in front of my eyes as I reminded myself to breathe, and let my fingers get to work.
, but allows me to give a tangible example of how this works.As a special note here, with any new partner rules would be discussed if only to make sure that they were understood. This will be RP, so they will not actually be mentioned once in character.
In the most basic form, we don't touch each other, we touch ourselves, and share in the enjoyment of doing so. A feast of the eyes, and a savoring of our own flesh.
***Here we go.***
Schools today take great pains to secure their computers to adult material, to varying degrees of success. Between the sheer pervasiveness of the subject matter, the need to allow the computers to actually access the internet, and the technical skills of student who have grown up in the Digital Age they were left with an ongoing, and up hill battle.
The printed page however had been forgotten by both students and staff alike. Titles like Nancy Friday's "My Secret Garden" likely bought thinking it was some sort of fairy tale, filed on a shelf, and forgotten.
A title that I was reading to greater, and greater distraction. Miss Friday's garden was metaphor for women's desires, real desires, shared with her, and put to print.
Printed pages that I was turning with my lone left hand as my right kept trying to defy my mind's orders to NOT touch stiffening nipples.
It certainly wasn't helping that the rest of my body was bombarding my mind with ever greater distractions.
A warmth rising to my skin that was so hot I was SURE it could be seen, either in reddened skin, or sweat I felt trying to form on my forehead.
A much richer moisture pooling between my thighs, soaking into my panties so much I feared what would be left behind once I stood up, matched by a throbbing between my legs matching the pounding of my heart that was overriding the fear of that wetness being left behind, the commands NOT to touch my nipples, and even the sense of where I was as all this was happening.
Yet once I stopped fighting it my brain became all too helpful. If I just leaned forward like I was sleeping my hot breasts could meet the cool surface of the table, and if I laid my left hand on top of my right there was no WAY someone could see that the bottom hand had slipped inside the top of my skirt (my brain even suggesting it would be less conspicuous if I did it that way rather then hike my skirt up).
My brain was also treacherous, overriding what little remained of my good sense by suggesting that no one ever came back here, that the printed page was truly dead, and no one would ever see.
It swore that everything would be just fine. It even said that it would be better if I did something for my state back here where no one comes rather then walking out where other students might find me and see what a state that damn book had put me in.
Part of me was trying to call all of that lies, but it couldn't he heard over the pulse in my chest, and the corresponding throbbing between my thighs.
Thighs that were now carefully opening to my slowly moving hand, and questing fingers.
My skirt felt a little binding near my wrist, but it kept my motions gentle as I slipped my hand under the waist of my panties, and my fingers into my own, damp heat.
At first I was afraid I would make a sound, but I couldn't breathe at all, my whole body locking up as my fingers found that core of my arousal, first digging in, sliding between grasping muscles before slipping out and up to circle my erect little clit.
My clit's response being to make stars swim in front of my eyes as I reminded myself to breathe, and let my fingers get to work.
