He Camus All Over Her [MF] [schoolgirl] [existentialism]

“Thank you for coming to see me.”

She sat with her hands in her lap, and tried hard not to smirk. Soon enough he’d be coming to see _her_.

“Thank you for having me,” she replied. Her voice was like a bird flying through an open blue sky. It was clear; it was light; it inspired dreams and longings. “I really want to do something about this grade.”

“That’s admirable of you,” he said. To her it seemed as if his voice, too, had passed through the thick lenses of his glasses. It seemed overblown, distorted, not-to-scale. “I would be glad to work with you to raise this grade.”

“Raise it. Yes.” Her voice had a hint of an edge to it as she continued: “I would _very_ much like to raise things with you this afternoon.”

“Splendid!” he said. “Your midterm isn’t till this Friday. You have plenty of time to get yourself reacquainted with the basics.”

“That’s right,” she said, and spread her legs apart. She’d worn a plaid blue skirt for the occasion. Her hand traced down her leg, towards her sheer white stockings. “I want to get a little bit more… _fundamental_ with you.”

“Then we should start with Sartre,” he told her. “Do you remember what we talked about in _Existentialism is a Humanism_?”

“Oh, I’m not too sure about _that_,” she said, and she giggled. She knew her giggles very well. This one was the sort that surely had men’s heads turning outside on the quad. I have a _very_ busy social life. I get… _up_ to things. You know?”

“Of course!” he said. “This is exactly the sort of quandary Sartre spoke of when he wrote _Paris Alive_. ‘Never were we freer than under the German occupation.’ When faced with a threat to their most fundamental freedoms, the French discovered at last what it meant to be human: to ultimately have control over the nature of one’s own existence. These are lost amongst more trivial freedoms when we have the luxury of being trivial. Which is why you’re here today, is it not?”

“_Oh,_ yes.” She played teasingly with the top button of her shirt. Not that it concealed too much—not with a chest like hers. “I’m done being trivial, professor. All those well-endowed college boys put together couldn’t treat a woman like a _real_ man could.” It wasn’t clear whether the button was undone or if it popped open of its own accord. “Teach me, professor. Teach me what a _real_ man’s all about.”

“That’s a question Sartre and Camus both struggle with. Camus more flamboyantly, of course. In _The Stranger_ he depicts humankind’s struggle in the form of a murderer, trying to find meaning to his life in the face of a looming death sentence. As with Sartre’s Frenchmen finding freedom, Meursault only begins to understand the value of his life when its end is in sight. A recurring theme in existentialism, that: the need to wholeheartedly confront the limits of being before it can be appreciated for what it is.”

Her hand snaked down her shirt. “I find there are easier ways to appreciate life for what it is.” Another button came undone. Her bra, now hinted at, was a paler blue than the vivid color on her skirt; the color of her flesh was vivid against it. “When a man puts me in heat, and when I feel his heat against mine, I can feel just how alive the two of us are. I feel myself coming to life around every inch of his skin.”

“Yes, heat! A way to feel the physical being of one’s own body.” His eyes glowed. “Yet what did Meursault learn in the brutal, oppressive heat of the midday Algerian sun? Certainly not the purpose of his actions. Heat may have been what pushed him to kill the other man. Meursault certainly felt himself alive, but that did not grant him a knowledge of life’s meaning.”

“I think I know something about life’s meanings,” she told him. She spread her legs farther apart. Her right hand went between them as her left hand undid another button. She moaned: half-fake, half-real. She bit her lip, and when she looked at him there was fire in her eyes. “I think I know what life is all about. And it’s not something I learned from any book.”

“That’s the paradox, isn’t it?” He clapped his hands together like a delighted child. “We _know_ what life is. We _experience_ it. Yet life’s meaning continues to elude us. We search for meaning elsewhere. We may even find glimmers of it. But we struggle to solve the greatest mystery of all even as it stares us in the face.”

“Do you want to solve the greatest mystery of all, professor?” She stood up, and walked to him. Took his knobbed hand in her smooth one. Guided it up to her panties, and held it there firmly.

He stroked it of his own accord. She felt a genuine shiver of pleasure.

“Hell is other people,” she said with a coy grin, “but people can be heaven sometimes too.”

“They can be,” he told her. She felt his fingers playing with her panties. Teasing them aside. Despite herself, she found she was longing for the moment that he’d pull them down. “But that quote of Sartre’s is sadly misappropriated. Understood without the context of _No Exit_, it implies something much more banal than intended.”

“Do you really have to talk about that now?” she whined. “When you have me right here in this room?”

“_No Exit_’s solitary hotel room is a perfect demonstration, come to think of it. Here there are three people, sharing a room. Nothing is inflicted upon them but themselves. Yet here is the catch: _they can’t look away_. They are _forced_ to endure one another—and, more importantly, to endure the others’ perception of their own existence.”

“But existence can be—_oh!_” She perceived three fingers in her pussy, making their way inside her without warning and without meeting any resistance. Her sigh came out almost like a gurgle. “Existence can be _heaven_.”

“The existence of others is not the hell Sartre imagined.” She felt the sting of his hand as it abruptly made contact with her left buttcheek, and let out a genuine gasp. He hit harder than she’d have thought he would, and she hadn’t expected him to hit at all.

“No,” he continued, “the existence of _others_ is only punishment in the minds of unimaginative misanthropes. The _real_ hell of Sartre’s play is the hell of one’s _own_ existence. The others only matter when their eyes on you prevent you from forgetting that you exist. That they can see you, and that you cannot make yourself go away.”

“I… can’t forget… that _I_ exist,” she half-gasped, half-grunted. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper on his chinos. She could see his erection pressing against its restraints, and she needed to put it in her _now_.

“You can’t,” he agreed. “You can try, and you can drown yourself in the oblivions of whichever pleasures you desire, but your existence is by its nature unforgettable. To exist as a human is to be aware of that existence. You may confront it or avoid it, but its fact is ever there.” He leaned back onto his desk, as she pulled her panties to the side and let herself sink onto his dick.

Surprisingly large. It was either surprisingly large, or he was…

A wave of pleasure cut across her momentary attempts to think. He had her by the waist and he was guiding himself into her with tremendous expertise.

“Is it enough,” he asked, “to seek a path away from self-awareness? That too would entail a lifelong struggle. You may tell yourself in your moments of triumph that you have managed something meaningful, but those triumphs are only defined by tacit admission that you spend each day of your life attempting to escape your very nature. Even in triumph you admit your own defeat.”

He pulled her onto him, hard, and kept her there. She felt the twitchings of his cock, and she thought nothing, for a while.

“That existentialism is seen as bleak,” he said, “suggests something about the mindsets of those who judge it. If I say that existence is all we have, and that our meaning must derive itself from that, and you reply that I am speaking bleak, defeated words, then which of us has a dimmer outlook on existence? Would you judge me for your own—”

“You don’t really have to talk,” she said, as she got off of him. She stooped down to her knees and took his cock into her mouth.

“I don’t,” he said. “There is no need. There is no need for me to do _anything_, but that I tell myself I should. Meursault is judged for drinking coffee at the funeral of his mother. Why is that? Because he’s not acting as others think he ought to act. Why do they think this? Why do they judge him so, why do they find him such a stranger, simply because his actions are not their own?”

“I’m sucking your dick,” she said. Her hands continued her mouth’s work as she spoke. “Why don’t you just think about my nice, wet mouth and nothing else?”

“Why _don’t_ I just think that?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, though he also started thrusting against her mouth. “Because this moment is all there is. Because I can only appreciate life when I appreciate that I _exist_ in it. I cannot deny existence; I cannot avoid my role within it, which is to _be_. Hamlet himself acknowledged it: the only choice is to exist or not exist. If you exist, you are responsible for your own existence. You may think to escape it, but you can’t.”

“Then why do this?” she asked him, taking his cock out of her mouth once more. “Why fuck my mouth like this? Why try to teach me anything? What’s the point, if it’s all just existence?”

“But that’s just it!” He wrapped his hand tightly around her head, and pulled her _hard_ back onto his dick. “There _is_ no point! Nothing past existence but _existence!_ _That_ is what Meursault comes to, in his jail cell. _That_ is what he finds after the priest, who asks him to confess his sins so that he might find salvation beyond this world, compels emotion out of him that he couldn’t find even at his mother’s funeral, even as he shot a man to death. He could not find meaning in those events; he could not bring himself to accept the meanings that others forced upon him. Only when confronted by a man who told him his only purpose was to seek another world, when he expelled his fury at the thought that his existence might be anything other than mere absurdity, that the fact of his existence might mean something, _anything_ more than the fact of his existence, was he able to see that his existence mattered _for itself_. That nothing else mattered beyond his living.”

She pulled away from his cock, and dropped her hands down. “I think I see what you’re getting at!” she said.

“Do you?” He stared at her blankly.

“It’s not that there’s _no point_ that matters. It’s _because_ existence matters _that there is no point._ Because _existence_ is the point. Anything we do, anything we experience, _that’s the point_. It means exactly what it means. And when you see that, you can take it in for what it is.”

“Well said!” he cried. “Well said!”

“The people Sartre sends to hell aren’t in hell for _existing_, are they? They’re sent to hell because they tried to _ignore_ that they existed. They tried to _look away_. So instead they’re made to share rooms with each other, without the freedom to look away, and each one is the demon that forces all the others to confront their own existence.”

“_Shit,_” he said. “You just put that _so fucking well_.”

“And it was only when Paris was occupied by Nazi Germany that existentialism was born. Because under such an oppressive occupation, the existentialists realized the value of their own existence, and the indomitability of their own spirit. It wasn’t that things couldn’t be taken away from them, even their free speech or their lives. But the more they lost, the more they realized that _existence itself could not be suppressed._ Just as a man walking to his own death sentence exists as much as you or me.”

“_*Fuck*_,” he moaned, and he came all over her face.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6xsm3u/he_camus_all_over_her_mf_schoolgirl_existentialism