An anonymous reader writes:
Sigh. They’re back.
Just moments ago I had to drag myself reluctantly from my bed, quickly throwing on a top and stepping into a skirt. Now I’m sitting in front of my laptop, typing, so if they knock on my door to say hello, it’ll look as if I’ve been diligently working all the time they’ve been away. My typing will make it seem more convincing, maybe it will even help mask my frustrations.
Because I haven’t been working at all, I was lying naked on my bed reading your delightful tale.
But I didn’t have time to finish it.
So I remain in a reader’s limbo. Unable to advance in the story, unable to discover what happens next. I remain marooned at a particular moment, one so tantalizing I’d been forced to stop reading because of the delight building between my legs. My indulgence ultimately consumed my remaining time to read. Thus I remain stuck, not knowing how the story ends.
It’s my own fault really. I shouldn’t have been so easily distracted…
I was picturing young Stephanie alone in her room in a position I myself have occupied on several occasions. I could feel the same wetness between my own freshly groomed folds (I’d trimmed and shaved right before reading). I could picture her quietly whispering her teacher’s name as she pictures him pleasuring her.
It is now that I feel I must admit I’ve had similar fantasies for my former history teacher. He always seemed to have a bulge in the front of his pants. I would oft let my mind wander during his lectures. Imagining what was hidden behind the fabric, how he looked naked, how he would sound in the heat of the moment.
Just thinking about it has my intimate areas getting hot and soft again. I haven’t had time to put on new underwear, my panties are still under the covers, sticky and wet, where I urgently tugged them off. Now I can’t help but long to be put into the same compromising position as Stephanie.
To have Sir instruct me to undress in front of him.
To be made to pull down my own underwear and admit my sins.
To be at eye level with that bulge as I bend over to reveal myself over and over and over.
To admit that I masturbate and be made to describe exactly what I do.
To describe to him the way I caress my breasts and pinch my nipples before running my hands over my body, imaging that they are the hands of my lover.
To tell him about how I position my pillow between my legs and imagine it is a man thrusting into my wetness.
To admit that I imagine him running his hands over my body and him thrusting into me.
To see his face as he watches my wet panties pull away from my bare mound and to admit that he is the reason for my arousal.
He would put me over his knee for sure. And spank me like the naughty girl I am. Hard and slow, until my bum is hot and pink. Until I’ve spilt all my sordid secrets. I’d tell him how I think about him late at night in bed, keeping me behind after class on some pretense. I imagine him inspecting me, the thrill of being so intimately scrutinized by such a meticulous mind.
i am typing with one finger now, picking out letters as my other hand strays beneath my skirt. time to go – i think you can guess what is going to happen next