Virtuous Vices

This is the first part of a story of innocence I’d like to share with you. The story is quite long and becomes intricate at parts and I do not wish to reduce it by trying to squeeze all the happenings in one short story. Please bear this in mind.

I was sixteen. Studious, sensible and growing up quickly. Those were my good points. How I’d be described by someone else. Shy, easily embarrassed and blushed at the merest mention of anything sexual. Those were obvious points too. I had friends but gradually I’d allowed myself to grow distant from them. The more they became bogged down with boys, drink and rebelling the more I disliked them and myself for being so different.

Ok, perhaps that was a slight lie. Although I wasn’t much interested in boys and sex I had began to mature, shall we say, in my own little way? I had accidently realised the pure pleasure of fresh air against my bare skin and it had become custom for me to wear nothing beneath my red and white gingham school dress. The material hid my nakedness perfectly and but also allowed me to feel the cool fresh air of a summers day. This then led on to me being naked aside from the odd t-shirt whenever was possible. I was an only child and my mother left when I was very young for foreign climes. So it was just Dad and I, and he held down a respectable job in the city which gave me more freedom than any of my peers could dream about. He’d often be away from home two, maybe three nights in a row and it was then I’d wander the house almost naked.

See, I didn’t need a boy butting into my pleasure. I had earned respect from my Dad which caused him to trust me and allowed him to be away as often as he was. I knew the alternatives if I wasn’t trusted, they had been voiced to me precisely. And it didn’t involve freedom anywhere near the kind I had now. Bringing a spotty boy into the picture would put serious question marks on his trust in me. I wouldn’t lie to him either. So whilst I wasn’t running off with the nearest boy who asserted any kind of interest in me like my friends were, I wasn’t a prude either.

The nakedness I enjoyed was thrilling on a million different levels. Spending my days whilst in class without knickers on underneath my school dress felt very liberating. And there was that ‘I know something you don’t’ smile that I held for most of the day. On the walk home, even with no one waiting to impinge on my freedoms, I often spent an extra ten or twenty minutes dawdling in the hot sun feeling the slight breeze wander onto my naked femininity.

This liberty then naturally led onto other happenings. Which, once again, were solitary pursuits for one. I began to know my body, really learn what growing up was all about. I masturbated. Often. I don’t know if it was the feeling of the air constantly between my legs that caused me such arousal or my frequent readings of adult erotic literature. Both, perhaps. I loved the books. Whilst they were often predictable and the Nanny would always finally succumb to the handsome, dashing, windowed and rich boss, for just one example, I couldn’t stop reading them. I’d track up two in a week. It was the sex scenes that did it for me. I’d read those parts over and over until my body couldn’t stand it any longer and I’d have to attend to the throbbing of my clitoris.

I’d reach down with my spare hand and touch my wetness, circling the swelling rosebud, teasing myself into an orgasm, night after night. Even whilst Dad was here I still continued. We respected each other’s privacy and whilst I couldn’t run around naked outside of my bedroom walls, I could still enjoy other pleasures. Of course this ease had grown on me. I was awkward in the beginning and I’d rush to finish scared I’d be caught even with the bedroom door locked.

I can honestly say that I had begun to, not love, but understand my body more. Frequent nakedness allowed me to become accustomed to my body more. It didn’t shock me any longer to pass the long mirror in the hall and catch sight of my bareness. And even though my legs still looked as gangly as they always had and my bottom too rounded I did notice slight changes. My breasts, although still small, had started to become a little fuller underneath.

I knew the other girls were missing on out on noticing such small changes to their body from hiding it so often, covering up straight from the shower, rushing to dress. That, to me, was now alien.

Sitting under the huge oak tree at the bottom of the school grounds with my eyes closed and dreaming of tall dark handsome strangers like in my books, I couldn’t help but notice my unusual unease. Yesterday was the same too. I couldn’t concentrate on the fantasy. Normally by now with the school bell close to sounding he’d have whisked me off my feet and we’d be declaring our undying love. All I’d managed to do so far is piece together his face.

Everything was ok at home. Dad wasn’t due back till Friday night and I’d spent yesterday afternoon with a new, even raunchier book. I did have a nagging feeling last night that I wasn’t as alone as I usually was when I laid on my bed eager to touch myself. I felt it the night before too. Perhaps this was what was unsettling me right now and as I opened my eyes to stand and make my way back into school I hadn’t heard him approach. He startled me. It was my English teacher. He grabbed my arm to stop me falling and for an instant I could have sworn his fingers had grazed my nipple.

Instantly my face reddened. I could feel the heat right down to my toes. I wrangled from his grasp and ran back into school feeling stupider than ever. What would he think of my reaction to his help? He couldn’t have realised his blunder with his fingers, besides he was my teacher! And as my nipples hardened in reaction to his gentle graze I knew then, for certain, that the accident had definitely happened.

Right through the rest of the day I kicked myself for not only fleeing and over reacting, but for the wetness that had now formed on my inner lips. I was turned on from this very brief accidental touch. I couldn’t fathom out why I would react like this. It wasn’t as if I fancied him. He was just my teacher. Furthermore I couldn’t allow myself to become what my friends were. I didn’t need anyone else, a boy or a man. This strangeness feeling of being watched was distracting me more than I thought. Was it time to kerb my liberty?

Running home I double bolted the front door, checked the machine for the usual messages from Dad, read the message attached to the still warm cookies from the cleaner who came in during the day, ignoring their lure, and ran straight for my bedroom, locking that door too.

Waking what seemed like hours later, I was slightly, but not completely, surprised at my nakedness. I didn’t even realise nowadays how habitual it had become to undress. The room felt stuffy, I needed a drink. Walking over to the window I opened it slightly and ran downstairs for orange juice and those cookies I had almost forgotten about.

Back in my bedroom I leant over to my bedside drawer. There it sat, ‘An Ode to Helen’. Unlike the usual romance books I read the sex would come after the falling in love. But in this it was almost from the start. Perhaps that was the reason for my unease. After all it had taken a long time to abolish the feeling that I was disobeying my Dad’s trust by going to school without knickers on and strutting around the house naked, so maybe this newer, naughtier book was tugging at my conscience. Leafing to the last page I started off from where I left it.

Dad came home the next night with an arm full of Easter chocolate and the usual hugs and smiles. We watched black and white movies until we were stuffed with chocolate and later that night he made supper for the two of us. I enjoyed his company even though it meant getting dressed. If you can call lounge pants and a short t-shirt dressing. Excusing myself later that night with the excuse of homework to cover my need to read on through my epic novel I locked my bedroom door quietly, switched the pc on so he’d hear its low hum and whirr, listened for his steps and stripped bare.

Instantly as soon as the warm night’s air hit my skin I felt embraced. A thousand hands caressed every nick and crevice on my body and a thousand more lips kissed me from head to toe as I stood in front of my still open window. I welcomed this feeling of abandonment with silence and stillness, allowing nature to do its work before I’d start my own. I loved this, so much so that I often doubted I’d ever get a lover with as much skill. Another reason to keep my thing personal. Perhaps sharing it may ruin it.

Softly in the background I heard the computer ding announcing I had mail. Turning to tend to it, assuming it was junk mail as that was all I ever got, I was surprised to see it was neither junk nor from a contact. As I read it, over and over, like a passage from one of my books that described the peak of the characters union, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was from anonymous and it simply stated the following; ‘I love watching you, please don’t ever stop.’ And as if some alien force had taken over my body I found myself leaving the screen and walking over to the window.

Being right wasn’t always good. I knew this now. Somebody had been watching me, but who? As I looked out my window I realised the error of my naivety. Whilst there wasn’t any other window directly overlooking mine, and the neighbours were quite far away, it could be any house from the street with the aid of binoculars or something similar. Why hadn’t I realised this a long time ago? How long had he been watching me? I didn’t need to ask what he’d seen; I knew the answer to that one. I reddened my inevitable blush of embarrassment.

But as I thought about who on earth it could be I began to realise that as the wash of embarrassment subsided a new feeling crept over me. This was like having your cake and not getting fat. My determined feelings towards keeping boys at arm’s length could, perhaps, be manipulated. Trailing my fingers across my nipples I moaned softly as the all too familiar ache of my embrace sent shock waves down to my clitoris. Pinching a swollen aroused nipple I closed my eyes. He’s already seen me at my worse, what was there to lose? It must turn him on, or he wouldn’t say he liked it. Under my closed lids and in my sordid mind I imagined his fingers grasping his hardness, watching me, stroking faster the closer I got to my orgasm.

Laying down on my bed my hand reached lower, to the bareness of my sex. I was no longer embarrassed that I was still hairless, or that I was still learning the true masterful skills of masturbation, for I knew that whoever watched me liked watching. And as my back arched not with acting but with arousal, and my fingers dug in and gripped the sheet, I flicked at my clitoris quicker, faster than I usually cared to. Not to bring on my orgasm faster, but to satisfy my pure need to please myself and them. Bending my legs and spreading my knees I dipped one, then two, then three fingers into my entrance, feeling the explosion of juices release at my hastiness. It wasn’t my hand anymore, it was his. His tongue, his fingers and his arousal that entered me. Wave after wave of pleasure rippled over me, and I gasped, never experiencing such a high level of excitement. Panting I lay still, letting sleep wash over me.