This is part two of my story about Penny, the sixteen year old desperate to grow up but afraid of losing her own privacy. I hope you enjoy.
Well it had been just over a week since he sent the email and although now, when I masturbated, I came stronger than ever before, nothing much else had changed. I still didn’t know who he was, this strange voyeur. We spoke often via email. He never offered any information, nor did I ask. I was a little afraid that reality wouldn’t live up to expectations. He complimented me often and when I asked him if he knew my age he said numbers didn’t matter and so I didn’t tell him I was only sixteen. Sometimes he’d ask me to do things because he liked watching me do them. Although he didn’t specify when I should do them, and I didn’t for one minute imagine him sat wherever he was waiting all day I’d do them two or three times for him, maybe more. And when his next email arrived he was always very grateful for me complying.
The things he wanted me to do weren’t too odd, so far at least. I enjoyed doing the more unusual ones for him like sliding my fingers inside my bottom because it felt very naughty and I was definitely decidedly curious. It felt good, and I imagined him thinking about his fingers going inside me there as he stroked himself to climax. But mostly it was positions he’d like to see me in. On all fours with my tiny breasts pointing to the bed and my hand between my legs, flat on my front, laid sideways and many more. I knew from our conversations that he wasn’t some young ill-mannered teenage boy. He hadn’t told me his age but the language he used was intelligent and well thought out.
I liked this arrangement, it suited me more than I had ever imagined. If I didn’t feel like talking I’d ignore the email until the morning or the next night. He didn’t infringe on my Dad time either, as he never emailed whilst he was there.
My inability to concentrate at school stopped and I found my daytime daydreams whilst sitting under the old oak tree pleasant and fruitful once more. I was, however, aware that things could change. He might ask, or even demand, that we meet. This didn’t worry me too much, I was enjoying things so far but I had started to imagine what it would be like to have him in my room watching, rather than in the far distance. I wondered if he’d enjoy the mutual masturbation as much. Or would I? I hadn’t even seen a man’s arousal apart from on the odd picture. I didn’t know what their nakedness smelt like, looked like not to mention their orgasm. How would he sound pleasuring himself? Actually sound, not what erotica told me. Furthermore would he find me as appealing close up? Did he really realise how young I was? From a distance I may seem to be eighteen perhaps, but close up I wouldn’t be able to hide my hairless cunt, or my freckled face.
This was on my mind as my English teacher announced this week’s homework; a short story. We had the last fifteen minutes of lesson to make a start on it. I knew I wouldn’t hand this piece in but I couldn’t stop myself writing about him. How he’d watched me through my bedroom window. I elaborated more around his character, describing the emails and pretending that he wanted to meet me. I told how he’d phone me and let me listen to him, describing how good it felt to touch myself for him. The story continued to him wanting me, aching for my youth.
I was quite enjoying writing down my feelings; it helped put them in order in a way. In fact I hadn’t even heard the bell ring for the end of the lesson I was concentrating that much. Nor had I heard, for the second time now, my English teacher sidle up to me. I looked up from my work and smiled. I hadn’t jumped this time and his fingers were nowhere near my nipple, unfortunately. Unfortunately?? What had I become! A couple of weeks ago I’d have blushed at my mind telling me such obscenities. Now I not only welcomed them with open arms but had, amusingly, started to embellish on them. I drifted into a half awake half daydream state where this person of authority, my teacher, with his thick ruffled dark hair and brown eyes told me he’d like to brush his fingers against my nipple once more. Packing my belongings up and having a quick check that I hadn’t left any tell tale marks of my arousal on the chair I left, desperate to continue this fantasy in privacy.
A good couple of hours later I realised my stupid mistake. I’d been that engrossed in my teacher seduces me fantasy and in that much of a rush to leave I’d left my story behind on the desk. I was foolish. It was if my young age was letting me down to ground me back into reality. Hey, you’re going too fast! It was bellowing in my ear. But what would happen now? Would he find the story and be shocked enough to ring my father. Would he realise the meaning behind the story? Well, I hadn’t heard from Dad yet, so perhaps he hadn’t told him, yet. Maybe he’d not found it. But I knew if I left it there it would be found sooner or later.
Dressing quickly I fled to the school. The Caretaker would let me in if I told him I’d left my house keys on my desk, if all the teachers had left. A little white lie to save my skin. Because if Dad did find out I was writing such things he’d assume, quite rightly, that something was happening even if I wasn’t actually meeting this fellow. And if that happened I would lose everything. I’d grab the story and thank my lucky stars that I’d not been caught before punishing myself for my foolishness. That was if it was still there.
The car park was empty of its usual melee of cars. The school looked sad and disregarded at this hour of day. Bygone was its rush of hurried feet from classroom to classroom; its walls empty of their usual canteen aromas. I wanted to set it free as I was, embrace it and kiss it farewell. Never the less it wasn’t a time for empathy, my own liberty was on the line. If I didn’t hurry I’d look just as melancholy as the building I was staring at now.
I knew I was stalling. I didn’t want to lie but it was a necessary evil. I had left something behind, it just wasn’t my keys. But if I told the Caretaker the truth he might tell me to wait till morning. I had to lie. Finding him in his usual place, working in the tool shed, I greeted him with a fake smile, gave him my lie and almost, just almost, replaced that nervous pseudo smile with a genuine one as he led me grumbling to my classroom.
“I take it you know your way out young lady? Or do I have to wait all evening while you look?”
I nodded in desperation for him to disappear. The gruffness in his voice sending shivers of fear over my body. I never lied, hardly ever. I feared the loudness of his call would awaken others dotted around the building and they would gather and my lie would increase like Chinese whispers before I didn’t know what it was I’d come for in the first place. I had to move fast.
Already I knew it wasn’t sat as I’d left it on my desk and that was before I’d even crossed the room. Striding over with fear weighing down my every step I checked inside the desk drawers, nothing aside from the usual pencil shavings and notes. Well it wasn’t in my school bag, I’d emptied it and triple checked. Glancing over to the front of the classroom my eyes scanned the teacher’s desk. Immediately without thought I crossed the room and rummaged through his drawers. There were so many pieces of paper this would take ages. I tried to work fast, looking for my handwriting amongst all the others.
“It’s just NOT here!” I shouted out loud in frustration, not caring who came or saw me. The game was up.
I saw his shadow before I saw him. His silhouette outlined across the floor from the light in the hallway. Daring not to turn my body trembled with fear. Not only had he now obviously seen my fantasy story but he’d also caught me with my hands in his desk. I didn’t have a system folder of lies in my mind that would cover this.
“Looking for this?”
His voice was smooth and had the teeniest trace of a northern accent mingled in. I hadn’t noticed this before. Perhaps now it was time to properly listen.
I turned, my eyes fixed firmly to the floor. Shame thundered through my bones. A tear fell to the floor on his shadow, pooling waiting for the stream to follow. The game was definitely up. I dared not answer.
He crossed the space between us. I wanted to run. Fear had now bolted my feet firmly to the floor. Quickly I tried to think of the possible outcomes. I lie and say it wasn’t me who wrote it. I lie and say it was make believe. I plead for forgiveness and ask him to forget he ever saw it.
His fingers, the same fingers that had grazed my nipple accidently over a week ago now held my chin up so he could look me in the eyes. I didn’t look at him still, knowing what he saw, reddened bloodshot eyes and tears. Gently his thumb wiped my tears away; joined by his other thumb he cupped my face, tenderly forcing my eyes to lock with his.
I didn’t see anger, or hate, or rage of any kind. I wasn’t even sure if I saw him, the way he usually looked. He wore a kind of look of recognition on his face which made him appear different than the man who was my teacher. Yet the same dark brown eyes and ruffled, if not more messier hair, stared back at me. I imagined he’d raked his hands through his hair agonising over my story over and over.
“Did, err...” my voice croaked.