Saras Protective Dad part 1 corrected
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Sara Learns Something New free porn video
"I swear, if I have to look at one more paper on pedagogy, I'm going to take an axe to my computer," Sara thought to herself. "Or Professor Carson. Or both."
She looked at the passage again. "Deriving from the Derridian concept (or non-concept), dissemination signifies the simultaneous presence and absence of meaning or, more specifically, the Other (Derrida, 2007), critical thinking operates to dismantle and separate ideologies, opening the possibility of future meaning. In other words, meaning reveals itself as both present and absent. Analysis of arguments gradually reveals conflict in the approaching dialectic. However, given that meaning is always absent (in the same sense it is present)..."
"What?? Always absent in the same sense it's present? Seriously?" She sighed. "I've had either too much coffee or not enough. Or both. I don't know any more. My brain is apparently made of tapioca. I know I have to get this understood for next week's exam, but ..."
She sat up in her tiny carrel on the eleventh floor of the library and looked around. "Huh," she said to herself, "when did the sun set?" Glancing back at her laptop, she muttered wryly "Jesus! Seven hours ago? Good thing grad students have 24-hour access. I'd hate to have been thrown out and had to go back to my room and sleep or something."
The word "sleep" reverberated through her head, like a particularly annoying song. She looked back at her laptop, but the words ran together in a blur.
Criticalpedagogyitselfestablishesaparadoxicalposition.Ontheonehand,itempowersstudentstoconfrontandquestionepistemologicalstructures...
"I know this is important, I know this is in English, but..." she sighed. "Maybe a quick nap."
She took her jacket from the other chair and wrapped it around herself; not that the library was cold by any means--the school kept it at a comfortable 72 Fahrenheit all year 'round--but for the psychological comfort of being covered by a layer. Draping it over her shoulders, with her arms inside, she pulled it tight around herself and leaned back. She closed her eyes and found herself in an odd combination of "hyper-aware" and "exhausted," brought about by too much caffeine and too little sleep.
Have you ever tried to will yourself to sleep? How well did it work? Sara had about as much success. The faint buzz of fluorescent lights in the hall, the scent of a million books, the pressure of the chair against her thighs and back, the light through her eyelids from the laptop... Sara snarled something not fit for publication in any professional journal, leaned forward, snapped the offending device shut, and leaned back again. She pulled her jacket around herself again, and was suddenly aware of the pressure of her hand against her breast.
When was the last time anyone else's had had been there? That had to have been Craig, her last dalliance from… five weeks ago?
“Asshole,” she muttered to herself, remembering that not-brief-enough experience. When was the last time she had enjoyed someone's hand there? Two months? Three? Being a grad student involves more work than someone who has not been there is likely to be able to imagine, and adding in time as a TA, plus time to eat, sleep (the irony of thinking about sleep while trying to sleep was not lost on her), and occasionally shower, leaves virtually no time for a social life. Sara honestly could not remember a time in the last three months when she had actually relaxed. Probably not since she broke up with Nick, who couldn't handle getting only the time Sara could squeeze out of her study and work schedule.
“I don't even remember the last time I masturbated,” she thought. “That's just sad. I'm spending the best years of my life orgasm-less, social-life-less, practically sunshine-less. Shit...” she thought, squirming on a chair that was clearly designed to keep distracted undergrads awake during lectures, rather than help an exhausted grad student catch a well-deserved catnap in the middle of the goddamned night.
Her wrist brushed her nipple, and again she thought about how long it had been…
“Dammit!” she snarled again. Sitting up, she realized that her mind was simply not going to let her sleep; she was too keyed up from coffee, worry, and—now—irritation and frustration. Clearly, it was time to go home, drink some Sleepytime tea, and try to get some sleep in a proper bed. She stood up, shrugging off her jacket onto the chair so she could gather her possessions.
The movement of shrugging off the jacket brought a sharp, clear moment of body memory. Early in her relationship with Nick, they'd gone out to a moderately fancy restaurant and been caught in the rain walking back. Her top had been soaked through, and he had draped his jacket over her shoulders in a gentlemanly gesture that had surprised and touched her. When they got back to her apartment, she had shrugged his coat off in the same shoulder movement, and his eyes had widened. Her top had become almost completely sheer from the rain, showing a delicate lacy bra which had concealed little of her nipples, erect and hard from the chill. She had looked at him and realized that she desperately wanted him at that moment. They had kissed passionately in the hallway, left a trail of clothes on the way to the shower, fucked madly under blisteringly hot water, and then spent the next two hours learning one another's bodies in great detail.
Sara sighed resignedly as she reached for her laptop and bag. “Not likely to happen again anytime soon,” she thought. Nevertheless, the memory of that night kept echoing through her head, details moving in and out of focus as she bustled about, making sure she had everything. Suddenly several thoughts coalesced into one; she was at least as horny and frustrated as she was tired. But it was somewhere around 0200, so there was nowhere to go even if she wanted to find a casual partner, and she was damned if she was going to booty-call Nick, let alone Craig. “No,” she thought, “this is one I'm going to have to do myself.”
Then another thought presented itself, fueled by impatience, frustration, caffeine, and… well… mostly frustration. “I have a private carrel, it's 0200, and it's a long cold walk home. Why not?”
Sara put her laptop bag down again, pushed the chair away from the desk as far as it would go (not far), and half-sat, half-leaned against the desk. Her right hand rose to her breast, and she cupped it through the thick sweater. No, that wasn't going to work; she pulled the sweater over her head, leaving her upper torso covered by just her “Teachers Make You Do It Again Until You Get It Right” t-shirt. She chuckled at the joke, and rubbed her nipple through her shirt. Her fingers supported the soft weight of her breast, and her thumb roved over the nipple. It sprang upright, pushing out against the soft fabric of the well-worn t-shirt.
Sara thought of how much she would rather it were the hand of a lover, a friend, a colleague, a partner; someone who understood the drive to excel, to show the world that she had something significant and original to contribute. Someone who would recognize the needs of a PhD program, and would be supportive. Someone who would minister to her erotic needs when she needed them, not complain when she came to bed at two o'clock in the morning (“or later,” her precise mind amended, thinking of the current time), who would respect her for her drive and intelligence … basically, a mythic perfect partner. But one who, right now, would be holding her breast just so and rubbing her nipple just so and stroking her vulva through her jeans just so...
She thought how much she would love to have a lover who would pull her shirt up so her breasts were freed, just as she was doing. One who would roll her nipples back and forth between his fingers… One who would be putting pressure on her through her jeans so they were suddenly too tight in a not-unpleasant sort of way…
She stopped teasing her nipple and attended to her jeans. Her right hand stayed on her breast, but her left (her dominant hand) was busily undoing her belt, button, and zipper. Eventually, though, she had to use both hands to get her jeans over her hips. She kicked off one sneaker and extricated that foot from her jeans, leaving them tangled around the other ankle. No points for style, but who cared?
Sara's right hand returned, going to her other breast, while the left slipped inside the lace panties she had worn on a whim that morning. She didn't like thongs, however trendy they might be, but lace always made her feel grownup and slightly naughty. Looking down, she could see her fingers through the lace as they slipped down to her vulva. Her ministrations so far had already aroused her, and as she parted her labia the inner flesh was already slippery. Turning, she put one foot on the chair to give herself better access, as if she were inserting a tampon, and allowed her first and second fingers to probe inside herself.
Long years of experience let her know just how and where to touch herself, and as her two fingers slid between her inner lips, her thumb covered her clit and started to move in a gentle circular motion. She knew that when she just wanted to bring herself off, this would do it quickly and efficiently. Most of her lovers had wanted to get fancy; she didn't mind at all, but when they were under time pressure that often left her unsatisfied when she had to run to a class. “Not a problem tonight, though,” she thought, as she started to move her fingers inside herself, each stroke changing the angle at which her thumb rubbed her clit.
She rolled her head to one side, knowing it would be only a minute or two before she came. She looked at the darkness outside the window, then noticed the reflection. She could see herself, her breath coming faster, her hand working vigorously behind the green lace, her other hand on her breast, the face at the door...
“Aah!” she turned, lost her balance, twisted away from the trash can, and ended up sitting spreadeagled on her chair, facing the man in the doorway.
“Shit!” he said. “I'm so sorry. I just saw the light on and your door was open and I thought I'd just turn the light off because I didn't think anyone would be here and...”
Her memory said, “Jake, polite, slightly nerdy, psych TA, met him in that “Psychology of Education” seminar last semester. Nice guy. What will he think?”
For a split second her face flamed with embarrassment, then she noticed his naked erection and the gleam of moisture at the tip. For another second her face flamed with fury at his intrusion, but then she realized that she had left the door open, so she really had only a limited expectation of privacy. She had just assumed that no one else would be there at that hour. Foolish in retrospect, she supposed, as she started to calm down. And he did have a really pretty cock.
She looked up at his face, which was now redder than hers, and suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck her. She started to laugh. At first it was a giggle (“giggle? Where did that come from? I never giggle”), but it quickly flooded over into frantic, hysterical laughter. Her hand was still in her panties, her breasts were still bare and now bobbing with her laughter, but it didn't seem to matter. After a moment,, when he apparently realized she was not laughing at his penis, he began to laugh too. Their laughter echoed through the cinderblock hallway as they looked at one another's faces. Each time one would catch a breath, it would be lost to more laughter. Sara sagged in her chair while Jake sagged against the doorframe and slowly slid to the floor. It seemed like hours, but was probably only about two or three minutes when their laughter gradually ran down. They sat there for a moment, catching their breaths.
Sara realized that she still had her hand in her panties, and Jake's penis was still on display, although markedly less erect now. He looked down and went to put it away, and on an impulse she said “No, don't.” He looked up, uncomprehending. “Look,” she went on, “there's no use pretending what we were or weren't doing, right? And isn't shared joy increased? Let's finish what we started.”
For a moment she could see the wheels in his head, trying to figure out if he had perhaps misunderstood, or if this was some kind of trap (even psych majors' brains don't work well at 0230 near the end of the semester), but she saw dawning comprehension in his eyes. Followed by belief, as he noticed that her hand was moving inside her panties again, right at his eye level. His erection, which had shrunk substantially under the combination of adrenaline from being caught, on the one hand, and gusting laughter on the other, revived markedly. Almost before he could get his hand on it, his penis was at full size again.
Sara watched as his hand gripped himself gently. She'd never had a lover who felt comfortable with masturbation—hers or his—so she had neither seen nor been seen before. This was a new thing for her, and she thought she was going to like it. His hand cupped his balls; it didn't seem to do anything, but it stayed there almost like a comforting touch. The other, she noticed, was moving at a steady pace up and down the shaft, rubbing the head at the top of each stroke. The tip leaked a little more.
Her hand, meanwhile, was also back to work. Her fingers had slipped almost all the way out of her vagina during the waves of laughter, but they slid back in smoothly enough, and her thumb found her clitoris. The sense of the forbidden was arousing, and she felt herself moving toward a climax surprisingly quickly. Jake's gaze was fixed on her fingers as they moved under the lace; it was sheer enough that he could see almost as much as if she had been nude. His breath was coming faster, and a little ragged. He leaned forward a bit, as if to see better, but then leaned back against the doorframe and continued to stroke himself.
Sara felt her orgasm starting to build. They came in different ways, but this one was like a vessel filling inside her with hot liquid, and she knew it wouldn't be long before it overflowed. She had never seen anything as erotic as watching Jake masturbate while he watched her, and she could tell the shared experience was driving him to orgasm as well.
She came. The vessel inside her that had been filling steadily suddenly brimmed over and poured out, and she felt the orgasm suffuse her entire body. Her fingers slowed, her thumb eased, but neither stopped, and she felt another orgasm roll through her before she decided she was done. She pulled her hand from her panties and rubbed her lubricant on her stomach, drying her fingertips. They'd been inside her so long they were starting to wrinkle; she wanted to laugh, but she could see Jake was getting close, and she didn't want to break the moment. She sat and looked at him, his hand flying over his erection.
“Please,” he said, and she looked at his face. “Show me,” he said, and she knew immediately what he meant. She arched her back and pulled her panties off, so he could see the slightly unkempt “landing strip” above her vulva. She had not shaved recently, so there was a little stubble on either side of the stripe of hair, but she doubted he'd mind. On the contrary, the sight of her vulva, glistening with her juices and swollen from arousal seemed to mesmerize him. He leaned forward and she heard him inhale as he took in the scent of her arousal. He grunted, and looked around suddenly, his hand still and gripping his hard flesh. Again, she knew what he needed, and kicked her trash can toward him. The cheap aluminum banged loudly as it came to rest in front of him, and the sound of his semen striking the inside made a series of quieter, diminishing rings.
He leaned against the wall, his erection wilting slowly. She looked down and said “Do you know, I think that's the first time I've ever used that thing?”
“You still haven't,” he replied. She chuckled, and inclined her head slightly. “Touché,” she said.
“Actually, we haven't that, either,” he said.
“Beg pardon?”
“It's French. Means 'touch.' Which we haven't.”
She grinned. “No, we haven't, have we?” She extended her hand for him to shake, and their respective secretions were slightly sticky as they shook hands (“huh,” she thought, “he's left-handed too”).
“Jake, right?” she said.
“And you're Sara. With or without the 'h?”
“Without.”
“Delighted to meet you.”
“Charmed.”
At that point the silliness of their dialogue, standing there half-naked or more, overcame them, and they laughed again. Not the wild uncontrolled laughter of before, but the shared laugh of friends who have something in common.
Jake looked over her shoulder at the window. “It won't be light for a while, but would you like me to walk you home? Or shall we get some coffee?”
“I don't really need any more coffee, but right now I could seriously go for breakfast. What about the IHOP?”
“Sure,” replied Jake. “But I think we're underdressed even for IHOP.”
“Agreed,” she said, chuckling, and reached for her jeans and underwear.
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