[FM] Things I think about

This is my first story, I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you like it too:)
The fact that I’m writing this down is crazy. It’s kind of who I am though, a literary nerd. I have not always been this way. I got deep into writing last year with a great high school teacher, one of my favorites, Mr. Nealson. Before him I was only into volleyball. He had such a passion for telling stories and teaching, it rubbed off on me. I started keeping a journal, and writing short fiction. I’m still not the best, but I love it. It feels so good to express my thoughts. Now, I’m majoring in writing at Northern University. I still play volleyball, but I have a direction outside of that. My journal is about everything, random thoughts, current events, boys… some times I get carried away. I was always a very tame girl, quite, did not go to too many parties. I had my friends and a couple crushes but never got very far with relationships. It wasn’t until my senior year did I even touch myself. In fact, it all kind of had to do with Mr. Nealson and that English class. I know what you’re thinking about, and it was not like that. He is young, 30 at most, and really cute, in a handsome, athletic, smart guy kind of way; not old man at all – a lot of girls had crushes on him.

The journals started as weekly assignments, just to get the class writing. By the end of the semester our task was to write a short story. I got really into it, and worked harder on it than anything else I had done up to that point. Mr. Nealson would give me great feedback on the story and I would stay up all night writing, just to give him a copy of my latest draft. I don’t want to get into what the story is about, its not important, and looking back on it is kind of embarrassing… like all high school fiction stories, a trip gone wrong, adventure unravels, a love interest. It was fun to write, and I enjoyed the conversations with Mr. Nealson, always insightful and encouraging. I was trying not to be a kiss ass but I couldn’t help it, he wanted everyone to put in the kind of effort I did, but most people just don’t. Which is fine, its not there thing. I would meet him during his office hours before volleyball practice almost every other day to read over what I wrote the night before. He was the assistant basketball coach at the time so our schedules where similar. It was meeting with him one on one, in the quite office space, that got to me in to him. His personality, his thoughtfulness, the way he looked at me made me want to do everything he says. his good looks didn’t hurt ether.

At night I would fantasize about him. While writing I would get distracted by thinking about what he said in class or by his handwriting on my page. The first time I really got off was started by me dreaming of him making a move on me. I laid on my bed thinking what if… my leg touched his in one of our meetings; what if… our eyes locked and we became lost in passion in his office. With him on my mind staring at the ceiling, my hand just went from touching my stomach to touching my clit. In that moment my whole face and body got red hot. It felt natural, I didn’t even have to think about it it just did it and it felt so good feeling how wet I was, pinching my nipples and pretending his hands are on me. I would rock my hips up and down raising my butt off the bed and arching my back. It only took me a a couple minutes before I was grabbing at my bed sheets with one hand and rubbing in between my legs with the other, cumming. All dreaming of his strong body over mine. His hands roaming over my pale skin and though my strawberry hair. My soft lips on touch his strong chest as my hands wrap around his arms as he pushes his hips into mine, cumming.

sometimes I would write wild things in the story to show him the next day. I always lost my nerve and would edit out the overtly sexual parts. I wanted everything at night, but during the day, I played it cool. I would look deep into his eyes when we talked, holding it for as long as I could, I thought he would think that I was interested in the material, but I was really towing an invisibly line of intimacy. I would sit close to him at the table, occasionally touching his finger as we traded a pen. I don’t know what he thought of me, probably just an over achieving girl, who’s job it was to teach to the best of his abilities.

After our meeting I would run over to the locker room and get ready for practice, usually the other girls were there before me fooling around and joking as they got dressed. I would slip into a sports bra, shorts and be out in no time. Sometimes I was so late the locker room would be empty, then I would have just enough time to slid my fingers over my wet pussy, still aching from the meeting. I was going crazy in my head, and I am so sensitive, I can barely touch myself without losing my knees. I would splash my face with water, put my hair in a ponytail and head out for practice. Once at practice I would get lost in the game, yelling, jumping, setting the ball. Mr. Nealson was on the other side of the gym with the Basketball boys, but I tried not to think about him. Sometimes I could not help it. During water breaks I would stroll around so I was in his line of sight, very nonchalant. I wanted him to see me in my outfit. I wanted him to see me stretch. I wanted him to see my body exposed in my tight fitting shorts and shirt. I wanted him to see me with my cheeks flush from exercise, as if he just fucked me. He would never acknowledge me in the gym, but that’s ok, I saw him looking once, I might have even given him a smile.

At home I would eat dinner, shower and go straight to my room to write. usually in shorts and a t-shirt. I would get comfortable and write for an hour before my focus would shift to writing descriptions of men I would meet in my story, and the things they would do to me… or I would do to them. Usually older, masculine, and French. My story took place in France, go figure. I would write about being picked up in cafes, only to go to his nearby apartment where he would seduce me into going down on him. I would write a scene where I was pined up with my backside to a table or wall and my new french lover would kiss me as I stroked my fingers up and down his back under his shirt. He would hold my head and push his lips into mine, mumbling in a language I could not understand. On my tippy toes I would edge my fingers to the front waistline of his paints, pushing down and exposing the tip of his cock for me to hold softly in the palm of my hand. We would kiss, roll and tumble onto his bed only for me to find myself with my face inches away from his smooth, warm cock. In my writing I was always coy, saying something like “I’ve never done this before” and then softly kissing his tip and modestly liking the underside of his shaft. A few lines later I always seemed to find myself sloppily going down as far as I can and gasping for air. Coy and slutty, that’s me I guess. There is something about oral that turns me on, I don’t know what it is. I think about it a lot, what it feels like to pass my lips over the head of a cock; how much saliva it takes before my hand slides freely up and down his shaft. I think about teasing him with my tongue, and looking up past a strong torso to see a man lost in pleasure, holding back the urge to use his whole force to get what he wants out of me. I think about me being between two athletic thighs, running my fingers over his legs as his cock sits, waiting, in font of me. I think of liking from the base to the tip, and then working on the head with my lips. I think about the taste of pre-cum as in drips down his shaft. I think about the pulse of his body as he starts to cums in my mouth. I think about being so lost in the moment that I swallow it all.

It would be at this point where I would step back from my computer, my head swimming, and my stomach twisting, and take off my shorts and shirt. Only wearing panties, my skin exposed to the air and the soft sheets of my bed. I lay down, my always wet and explore my body thinking about my new french boy toy. Only to have my dream unconscious disturbed by the reality of showing Mr. Nealson what I wrote! Then I in my head I would enact the scene in his office, where he reads what I wrote. Roll playing scenarios of how he reacts. General it would end with him fucking me on the table; taking my virginity after volleyball practice when everyone else is gone. I would cum in my bed, biting my pillow and fingers wet. In the morning I would edit out the erotic descriptions of the night before, using my sensibility. Then I would shower pick out my clothing and go back to school to do it all over again. In a way I was loosing my mind, but discovering my sexuality.

My writing was getting a little convoluted because of my distractions and so too were our meetings. They often drifted off in tangents about “what makes a good story” or a personal experience he had had, wrapped into a far off moral of some sort. I liked the conversations, but sometimes I would think “whats the point”. I would try to give Mr. Nealson hints as to what I was thinking, but he never got them. Sometimes I would wear loose fitting shirts and lean over the table. Once, I put a little extra perfume on when we had our meeting. I got real close to him as we talked, touching knees, and elbows. It was just a normal meeting for him, red lining my writing and sending me on my way disappointed. I stayed at the door for a moment be for leaving, thinking, and then said “Mr. Nealson, you know you’er my favorite teacher” he responded by saying “thank you, aren’t you running late for practice”.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/5ef9lg/fm_things_i_think_about