Schoolgirl cottony purple panties

Finals week was on its way, no matter how much Amanda didn’t want it to be. Amanda had always been a good student in high school. She’d done what little studying was required, and taken the “hard” classes.

But college was different. In high school there had been class discussions and worksheets. Now there were just lectures and mountains of reading.

It wasn’t like she didn’t like reading, either. Quite the opposite; she loved it. She had a long bookshelf with all sorts treats, from classics like _A Tale of Two Cities_ to the latest thrillers from King and Koontz.

Her favorites, however, were buried in the stack of romance novels that she kept tucked hidden under her bed. There was nothing in the stack that was too racy, but she still didn’t care to have them on her shelf for everyone to see.

Right now she was wishing that was the heroine in one of those three dollar novels, in the strong arms of the fierce Indian, or those of the dashing newspaper reporter. Or she would maybe in the arms of her boyfriend, John, or perhaps even…

She didn’t finish her thought – didn’t let herself finish her thought – returning to her Geology text with a small sigh.

It was getting late now, and she had already moved herself from the large oak desk in the corner to her bed. An hour ago she had brushed her teeth and changed into her loose flannel pajamas, and now she was snuggled in under her thick comforters between and between smooth sheets. This was no time for sleep, however, as she sat up reading about rock formations scribbling notes by the light of a small lamp and the vanilla scented candle that she liked to keep lit while she was studying.

It’s too late to think about rocks and canyons and cliffs, she thought, sliding down further into the bed. Geology was pretty interesting, but there was a limit, and right now it was just making her bored and tired and stressed.

She dropped the notes on the floor, deciding to concentrate on just reading the material without falling asleep for now. She shoved her left hand, which she had been scribbling the notes with, under the covers against the dorm air that was always not quite warm enough, and flipped pages carefully using the thumb of the hand holding the book.

Small bits of fantasies began to creep into her thoughts now as she struggled through the book. Reading about rocky desert canyons she would find herself envisioning making love in the tent perched on the edge of figure 1a. Reading about the smooth pebbles on a beach she could imagine herself as part of the couple kissing passionately in the corner of figure 2c.

She drew herself out of her fantasies for a second, and was surprised to find her hand resting in the warmth between her flannel pajama bottoms and the edge of her cottony purple panties. Letting her book rest over her stomach – for just a second, she told herself – she closed her eyes and concentrated on the small curves of her belly as she could feel them through the unmoving hand.

Under her palm rested the soft contours of her belly and the small valley of her navel. Beneath the very tips of her finger should could feel the almost springy cushion of hair beneath her panties.

Still without ever moving her hand, without touching herself – really touching herself – she inhaled the sensual scent of vanilla, and the images came crashed into her mind.

There were vague, at first, with soft edges, almost like old memories almost forgotten. Some, perhaps, were memories, of times with John, or the one before, or, for a fleeting second before she chased it out, the time with him. [ed: Who is “him?” Read “Homecoming”: http://www.angelfire.com/art/AlfredE65/text/homecoming.txt]

She lay like that for a long time, simply drinking in the sensations, feeling the environment act on her without attempting to change it, and letting the images percolate in her mind.

It wasn’t long before she could feel the beginnings of arousal as she lay still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of breathing. Just beyond the tips of her fingers she knew – could feel, and imagined she could almost smell – that the juices of her sex were spreading beneath the hair covered mound.

Concentrating on the warmth radiating from her sex and the fullness she felt, Amanda drew in a deep breath, and then… BANG!

The book slid of her stomach and the floor between the bed and the wall with a crash, the sound shattering Amanda’s fantasies in an instant. Turning with a sigh to pick up the book, Amanda vowed to keep on with her studies for the night, and banish the fantasies until later.

Before she could reach down to grab the book, however, her eye caught a large picture of John hanging on the wall, and her hand flew, unbidden, to cover the warmth of her mound, beneath the panties that were now growing damp with her arousal.

She shocked even herself when one slender finger slipped inside the warmth and wet, resting comfortable between her swollen lips. What shocked her, more though, was to find her eyes wandering from John’s face and settling on a wallet sized picture of the other.

At first she felt shame, remembering the night with him, the secret she had to keep, the fleeting moments when she felt more loved than she had ever been before.

It was hard to keep him from her mind now, though, with the one finger slowly stroking up and down. Soon, she accepted the images, the remembrance from that night, and started to let herself imagine it was his fingers inside of her.

She still lay on her side, her eyes now fluttering closed. She imagined him laying beside her, encircling her with his arms and caressing her. Focussing on this images, Amanda caressed herself, letting the wet finger slip in a little deeper, into the silken tunnel of her womanhood, then a little deeper, and a little deeper, sliding and slowly back and forth in a gentle rhythm to the beating of her heart.

With one hand working slowly inside of her, she let the other flow up and down her body, over and around her breast, down to the clitoris and back again, dragging a faint trail of the heady juices of her desire.

She could almost feel the heat from John’s imagined body now, fantasizing about him. She imagined feeling his hardness between her legs, envisioning her fingers as the tip of him penetrating her, filling her. As thought they possessed a mind of their own her hips began to rock back and forth, surrounding and squeezing the finger – now fingers – inside of her.

While she slowly fucked the wet fingers, felling them slide in and out with her thrust, she used the other hand to gently pinch at her nipple, rolling the small hardness between her fingers, squirming with the intensity of the sensation and moaning softly.

Her face, her whole body, felt flushed, as she undulated, the muscles of her tunnel griping the fingers, squeezing and caressing them, as the muscles in her body began their slow tensing.

She was rocking her hips furiously now, imagining his hands at her breast, his lips working at her shoulder, and his erection inside of her. She imagined him coming, imagined him filling her as he had done before, her breathing desperate as her sex contracted fiercely around her fingers, fluttering in powerful orgasm.

Slowly, the contractions slowed, became a slow wave, then ceased, as she lay, exhausted and panting, as though he had been there to ravish her in reality as well as fantasy.

As she caught her breath, her mind turned with the guilty pleasure of her fantasy, her lips no longer quivering now, but her mind churning as though it would never be still.

Without even knowing it, she reached up and turned the small lamp off, and lay in the glow of the candle, alone with her thoughts.

Eventually the vanilla-scented light of the candle grew dim, vanished in an invisible trail of smoke, and Amanda dropped into sleep. To sleep – perchance, to dream.