Invisible Girl An Erotic Romance Pt 1
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Invisible Girl (An Erotic Romance), Pt. 2 free porn video
Outwardly she was still the Invisible Girl, for which she was thankful, because this allowed her to give her attention almost entirely to the stranger she had suddenly become.
Who was this girl who had done all those things, things that played themselves over and over in her mind, things she had never even heard of but knew were bad, things that would shock anyone who knew her? Things she had only done because she’d been forced to, she told herself, but still things she was certain no other girl she knew had even thought about. She felt as if she had not only become a different person, but a different species, outwardly similar in appearance but inwardly totally unlike the people around her.
Sometimes a particular memory would suddenly fill her mind. While changing into her gym clothes she would remember standing in her bra and panties before him, his eyes looking at her. Absently chewing on a pencil in class, she would suddenly recall having him in her mouth, the taste of him. At those moments she would blush to the roots of her hair, and have to look down, thankful for her long bangs and glasses.
And it didn’t help that her history class was studying the Civil War. Every time she heard the word slavery it jolted her. She wondered if slaves then had to do the kinds of things she had done.
And what about him? She could hardly bear to think about him. When she did she would cringe inwardly, overwhelmed with conflicting feelings: anger that he had forced her to do and say such awful, humiliating things, driving her to tears; shame that she had done them—she had had a choice, after all, and could have turned herself in, which would have been the right thing to do—what a good girl would have done. And this brought her to a deeper feeling of shame, one that told her that maybe she had deserved exactly what had happened to her, because she was not a good girl.
And below that, a shame so deep that she dared not allow it to become even a thought: that she had, finally, enjoyed it.
And that he knew.
The thought of seeing him again terrified her. As long as she didn’t see him, it hadn’t really happened; only in her mind, a story she had made up. To see him again, to have him looking at her, would make it irrevocably real. So she scuttled from one class to the next, her head even further down than usual, and dashed out a side door at the end of the day. Once she had recognized the back of his head in the student union cafeteria and had run out in a blind panic. She hated him more for knowing the things she had done than for making her do them. He was a terrible person; only a monster would have made her experience such degrading things.
And yet sometimes, even when overwhelmed by memories that made her want to cry with shame and anger, there would arise unbidden the memory of that kiss—a wonderful, romantic kiss, despite the circumstances. The way he had held her, the tenderness in it. It was the kind of kiss she had only seen in movies or read about.
And that look he had given her afterwards, his eyes searching hers. What was it she had seen in that look? She didn’t know. But she thought that sadness was a part of it.
In some ways the memory—that kiss, that look—haunted her more consistently than any of the others, so much so that even though she was frantically trying to avoid him, she also now found herself paying attention to how she looked, although she wouldn’t admit to herself that she was doing so, resolutely thinking about something else as she picked out her clothes in the morning.
By the end of that week she was no longer drawn to her invisibility wardrobe. That Friday morning she put on a white blouse with matching knee-socks (she hated pantyhose, which made her feel as if her lower body had been shrink-wrapped) and a tartan skirt—nothing that would attract attention, certainly, but not invisible, either. She had even, while defiantly not noticing that she was doing so, put on a pair of panties that she had never worn—white, with a pattern of large and small red hearts—which her mother had picked up somewhere and given her as a sort of jokey Valentine’s day present. She had never worn such girly things, not since entering adolescence, and would not allow herself to wonder why she was doing so now.
Her family lived close enough to the school that she could ride her bike there in good weather and she did so that morning, arriving, as she had all that week, in a state of anxiety and, somewhere underneath, unacknowledged, anticipation. She had managed to avoid him so far, except for that moment in the lunchroom. She knew that in a school as small as Ridgeton Community College she couldn’t hope to avoid him forever, but felt that maybe if enough time went by it would erase what had happened between them, if only partially.
So when he came into the library while she was studying there that afternoon she restrained herself from picking up her books and fleeing.
There was a good chance he wouldn’t see her: the long table at which she sat was almost around the corner of the L-shaped room and partially obscured by a chest-high set of bookshelves. It was an unpopular table because there was no window, and the light wasn’t good, which was why she had chosen it. She could see across the library but was somewhat in shadow herself.
And even if he did see her they were in the library, and the librarian was a tight-lipped old harpy whose devotion to silence rivaled that of any monastic order. He could say nothing to her.
But having him not see her would be even better. She bent her head over her book, trying to summon her powers of invisibility.
But she wasn’t reading, of course, not even trying. She was looking over the tops of her glasses, following his every movement.
He was wearing tan chinos and a navy blue polo shirt. He had an average physique, not tall or short, neither muscular nor flabby, but he had broad shoulders that made him look a little more imposing. His brown hair and his sideburns were both a little longer than the school dress code permitted, but as a soon to be graduating second-year he could get away with it.
His face was less dramatic than she had colored it in her memories. Not exactly handsome, but not unpleasant to look at, the slightly largish nose balanced by the blue eyes under his dark eyebrows and broad forehead.
Strangely, she could find no hint about him of the power he had wielded over her. In fact, his movements, as he made his way to the shelves, seemed a little hesitant, as if he weren’t quite comfortable in his body. He was fairly popular, she knew, and was active with both the yearbook committee and the drama club, in the latter of which he had taken small parts in various productions. But there was something shy, something inward about him. She could hardly believe that this was the same boy who had barged into the girls’ bathroom that day and changed everything she thought she knew about herself.
The boy who had seen her.
But it was the same boy, she reminded herself firmly. And she continued to watch him with her complete attention as he made his way along the shelves, moving toward her but still safely distant. He stopped occasionally to read a book title, sometimes tilting his head to do so, once taking out a book and glancing at the flyleaf before putting it back and moving on.
God, he was still moving in her direction! Why didn’t he find whatever it is he was looking for and leave?
A few moments later he had nearly reached the juncture of the shelves he was looking at and the shelves behind which she sat. If he did, and turned to his right, he would see her for sure!
She kept her face down, tried not to breathe, and prayed that...she wasn’t sure what. Her left hand gripped the side of the table, already slick with sweat, as he reached the corner, began turning to his right…
And dropped out of sight, hunkering down to look at the books on the shelves in front of her.
She let her breath out silently but did not relax, because she knew this was only a momentary reprieve. Any second now his head might pop up, looking right at her!
Oh god, there it was!
Quickly she ducked below the table, as if reaching for a fallen pencil. She waited there as long as she could, breathing as quietly as she could, half-expecting to see a pair of chino-clad legs appear on the far side of the table. But after a while, when they failed to appear, she raised her head, cautiously, and saw him walking away, book in hand.
This time she allowed herself a full sigh. She watched him approach the librarian’s desk, check out his book and then leave.
She became aware then that her throat was extremely dry. She waited a few minutes longer, then rose from her seat and went out into the hall, checking in both directions before seeking out the nearest water fountain. The first one she came to was broken, so she had to walk some distance to find another. She savored the cold water, endlessly thirsty.
When she returned to her seat she noticed that something had changed: the book she had left lying open on the table was now closed. Odd.
When she sat down and opened the book to its former place she found a scrap of notebook paper there. Written on it in ballpoint pen were the words, “Bad little girls get punished, but...”
Her head whipped up and she darted her glance into every corner of the library. No. But how could he have... Where was he?
Her mind was in turmoil as she turned the paper over. In the same writing, it continued: “...good slaves are rewarded.” What in the world...
It was just at that moment that she felt a hand gently grasp her ankle.
She didn’t quite jump out of her seat, although she might have had her ankle not been held in such a firm grip. She did, however, let out a gasp that drew the attention of everyone in the library, including an especially disapproving glare from the old watchdog at her desk. Jane managed to pretend she had swallowed the wrong way, working up a short but convincing coughing fit and looking apologetic.
After a while she subsided and pretended to go back to her book and everyone soon returned to their studies. But even then she couldn’t bring herself to look under the table. There was no point, anyway; she knew who it was. And of course she didn’t dare speak, even in a whisper—especially to someone under the table. What she didn’t know was what he was doing there, or planning to do, or what he meant by “good slaves are rewarded.” But she was sure she would be finding out very soon.
Almost immediately, as it turned out.
She could tell from the placement of his hand around her ankle that he must be sitting cross-legged in front of her. She felt him lifting her foot off the floor and pulling it towards him, then felt his other hand at her heel, gripping and then gently removing her shoe. Then her foot being settled on what must have been his crossed ankles. His hands rearranging themselves on either side of her foot.
A pause...and then his thumbs, massaging the ball of her foot.
Her eyes went wide for a moment, but she kept her face down towards her book.
Well. This wasn’t so bad, even if having her foot massaged by a boy under the table in the school library was a little unnerving. She felt his thumbs moving along under her toes, finding the spaces between the bones and probing deeply. Was this her ‘reward’? A kind of apology? She didn’t care; it felt wonderful.
She closed her eyes. Then opened them again, feeling she should keep watch for anyone who might be approaching. Then, unable to resist, closed them again as he gripped the side of her foot and kneaded it with the fingers and heel of one hand, and worked his way along her arch with his other thumb.
Mmmm… No one had ever done this for her. She hadn’t felt anything so nice since she used to lie with her head in her mother’s lap and her mother would stroke her hair and forehead, something that hadn’t happened in a long time, longer than she could remember. Before the bad times began, though, she was sure.
Now both his thumbs were on the sole of her foot, working their way upward from the heel.
Now he was holding her foot in one hand, gently stretching and twisting each toe, one at a time. One of the toe knuckles cracked, and it sounded to her like a gunshot. She quickly opened her eyes and looked around, but no one else seemed to have heard anything so she closed them again.
Now the heels of his hands were slowly working their way down the sole while his fingers seemed to be delicately loosening the bones on top. She felt as if her foot must be faintly glowing with pleasure.
He began to massage the tendon behind her ankle between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while working the ankle itself with the other, then continued slowly up her calf, kneading the muscles so deeply that it almost hurt. It felt so good that she wanted to purr like a cat.
By the time he had reached her knee she was in a trance, almost, and hardly noticed when she felt her sock being slowly lowered to her ankle and removed—that felt nice, too, the fabric sliding along her leg, the cool air on her foot. She wished he would pick up her other foot and repeat everything he’d done.
Now she felt the tips of his fingers gliding along the back of her leg, cool and delicious, tracing slow circles around her ankles, weaving delicate patterns on her foot, then floating, featherlike, up to her knee to begin again, over and over. She felt as if everything below her knee had turned into pure sensation, that she would sit there forever if only he would continue.
Then she felt her foot being cupped in his hand and lifted again, and while the other hand continued to stroke the back of her leg she felt a warm, lingering touch on her instep…then another, near the first.
His lips.
Immediately, in her mind, the picture of him—sitting cross-legged on the floor, bent forward as if bowing, holding her foot to his mouth and kissing it so tenderly—flooded her with sweetness. She wanted to slide out of her chair and onto the floor, to stop even pretending to be doing anything else and melt into the sensation.
He continued to kiss her instep, moving slowly upward.
Now he had reached the ball of her foot, lingering there for a moment, then continuing on until he had reached the very tip of her big toe. When he kissed her there she felt just the slightest touch of his tongue, and it seemed to shoot a small electric current up her leg.
Then she felt his lips open slightly and felt her toe surrounded by moist warmness down to the first knuckle. He teased it with his tongue for a moment then took it all the way into his mouth, licking it deeply, as if it were an ice cream cone that was melting.
Instantly a vision appeared in her mind, like a light being switched on in a dark room: kneeling on cold tiles, her mouth full to choking with a warm, salt-sweat taste, wetness between her legs. Oh god!
Her eyes snapped open and her hand flew to her mouth just in time to stifle another gasp. She kept her face down, feeling herself flush so deeply that tiny beads of perspiration prickled her forehead. Oh god, there was moisture between her legs, she could feel it!
Then his tongue slithered between her toes.
She had to reach under the table, grab him, make him stop—but she couldn’t move! And even if she could she wouldn’t be able to reach him without making a scene—Oh, stop...please stop...
He stopped—and she felt her toe being slowly released from his mouth.
She breathed.
After a moment she felt him shifting position, then her leg being drawn out almost to its full extension. Her foot was cradled in his left hand and his right hand continued to caress the back of her calf, so she knew he was facing her instep. Especially when he began to kiss it again.
But this was a different kind of kissing. His lips never really left her skin, and with each kiss his tongue would trace a delicate line on her skin before moving on to the next place, and the next.
Always a little higher.
She felt as if every atom of energy inside her was rushing to the place where his tongue touched her. She cradled her forehead in her left hand, hoping that she looked as if she were concentrating very hard on her book, when in fact she was concentrating very hard on breathing quietly through her nose. It wasn’t easy when every touch of his tongue on her reminded her of her tongue on him.
As if in a fever dream she felt him slowly making his way up the inside of her calf, leaving little electric touches of his tongue, until he had reached her knee.
He stopped.
Was he done? She had no idea how she felt about that. She felt as if there was nothing left of her but her skin. He gently returned her foot to the floor. That was it then. Okay, she thought, maybe I have had enough of a reward for one day.
She heard him shifting around again. Then suddenly felt both her feet being lifted, then set down again, about three feet apart. Then his shoulders, brushing her knees as he edged his way forward, forcing them even further apart.
Oh god, he’s looking right up my skirt, she thought, suddenly aware of a great deal of dampness there and hoping it was too dark for him to see it. And why on earth had she worn those stupid, stupid panties?
But then she felt his lips again, and his tongue.
On the inside of her thigh.
And now it wasn’t just little touches of his tongue, either. There were fewer kisses and longer wet tingling tracings and his hot breath on her skin. Her skirt beginning to bunch up toward her waist. Then just his tongue, as if he were using it to sign his name on the skin of her thigh. His full name. Taking ownership of her yet again.
She could almost hear him asking her, What are you?, as his tongue drew closer and closer to the top of her thigh. And herself replying, as if hypnotized: Your slave.
She started to repeat it to herself like a chant, silently, her lips moving slightly: Your slave… Your slave… Your slave, your slave, your slave...
She felt her hips of their own volition slowly slide forward in her chair, almost to the edge of the seat. Her legs, opening wider. Her feet, rising up on their toes. And her right hand, reaching under the table, grasping her skirt and drawing it the rest of the way up to her waist, just below the table.
Giving him her answer.
He had finished his signature and was just beginning to trace, with excruciating slowness, the line of her panties along the inside of her thigh. She felt a quivering between her legs, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. If he touched her there, she thought, she would explode.
She wanted him to touch her there.
Instead, when he reached the point where her thigh met the chair and could go no further, she felt him withdraw.
A moment passed. She held her breath. And then felt his tongue again, now at the top of her other thigh. Again, the glacially slow descent.
Oh god, no...please...
Halfway down her thigh she felt him slip his tongue under the elastic of her panties, just long enough to disturb the patch of curly hairs there—causing her to take a sudden sharp breath through her nose, and the quivering between her legs to take on a greater intensity than she could have imagined. And still he continued, taking his time, making her wait.
When he finally reached the lowest point, and again withdrew, she thought: Now. Please...now.
A moment passed. Another. Another.
No! You can’t!
Another moment. She felt as though she were hanging from a cliff by her fingernails. She wanted to grab the back of his head and push his face between her legs. She felt her hips bucking slightly, asking...begging...
She heard him inhale, slowly, through his mouth. A big breath.
Another pause...and then she felt it: his breath—hot, focused—and just strong enough to press her panties against her skin there.
Oh god, this was making the quivering even worse...this was torture...
She felt his hand close over hers, the one holding up her skirt.
She watched in her mind’s eye as her fingers were gently unfolded so that the skirt was released. She saw her hand being drawn slowly downward between her thighs...and then pressed firmly against the wet fabric of her panties. Oh god, he was making her touch herself there—right in front of his face!
His hand still covered hers and began slowly to move it up and down between her legs, applying and releasing pressure as he did so. She allowed herself to be guided into his rhythm. And even when he took his hand away, she continued, finding her own rhythm, knowing that this was what he wanted.
She was beyond embarrassment now, even when she pictured herself with her legs wide apart, her hand touching herself through those silly valentine panties; and with him watching not six inches away. In fact, she found that thinking about it made it more pleasurable, especially when she tried to picture the expression on his face as he watched. Oh god....
Her reverie was shattered when she suddenly felt him reach both his hands up under her skirt on either side of her hips, hook his fingers into the elastic of her panties...and pull.
She had just enough presence of mind to raise her hips slightly off her chair. And a good thing, as otherwise she would have been pulled right to the floor. Fortunate, too, that she had been forcing herself to breathe through her nose, as she would have let out a gasp that dwarfed the first one. As it was, it just sounded like a big sniffle.
She made a grab for her panties with the hand that was under the table but was too late. She felt her legs pulled together as her panties slid down her thighs and over her knees, then down to her feet, which were lifted, first one then the other…and then her panties were gone.
Oh god, she was sitting in the school library with no panties on, and a boy sitting right there looking at her. If they were discovered...if her parents...if the whole school...
She didn’t dare move or make the slightest sound, even, especially, when she felt her thighs being gently separated again, felt him edging close again, felt him...ohhhhh, god...nuzzling the mound of curly hair there, smelling it, burying his nose in it, kissing all around it.
And then at last his tongue: just the tip of it, slowly feeling its way along the lips there. Up...then down...up...then down.
Jane felt herself opening there like a flower, his tongue seeking nectar and then finding her.
Her whole being concentrated into a pinpoint of fire that grew hotter, and hotter...and still hotter...and then suddenly flared and burst, completely consuming her.
When she again became aware of her surroundings and opened her eyes, she was astonished that apparently so little time had passed. She had half-expected to find herself alone, school over, the room deserted and dark. But no, as near as she could tell these were the same people who had been here the last time she looked.
And none of them were staring at her. So she hadn’t screamed, as she’d thought.
She became aware of herself—still slumped in her chair, her legs wide apart—and quickly sat up, pulling her skirt down over her knees.
And froze. Oh god, he was down there! And he’d...and she’d let... Oh god, right here in the library!
Again, the now familiar feeling of deep humiliation.
Along with it, however, was an awareness of her body: drained, exhausted even, but filled with a kind of humming sensation, as if her body was a tuning fork that someone had struck. It felt wonderful. She wanted to just sit with her eyes closed and bathe in it. And he had done this—this was her ‘reward’.
A voice then, in her head. It was hers: Yes, I’m your little slut.
Her eyes flew open, and she looked at the wall-clock. It was almost time for her next class—her last of the day, thank god. The bell was going to ring any second and she had to go; he had to let her go. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting him see her face so soon after she’d… Her hand, pulling up her skirt...her hips sliding forward...Yes, I’m your little... Oh god, but she had to!
She glanced quickly around, then, steeling herself, leaned over and looked under the table, bracing herself for the sight of his face, the knowing look in his blue, blue eyes.
On the floor, next to her feet: A shoe. A crumpled white knee-sock.
He was gone.
And he’d taken her panties with him. -->
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