Hidden

Mary-Catherine, addressed variously as Mary-Cath, M-Cath, M.C., McCat, and other nicknames, was known by her peers as someone who would answer questions that could not safely be posed to adults. Sex questions. About boys and men: How big does it get? Do they really put it in your… you know? About pregnancy and what could be done without risking it. About mysteries: What does an orgasm feel like? Does the first time hurt a lot? Does swallowing semen make your face grow hair? About sinfulness: Am I still a virgin if we just do oral? Will I go to Hell if I touch myself?

Despite her reputation as especially well-informed, Mary-Catherine was not called a slag, or a slut, or a “ho.” A cynic might have said that she was not sufficiently smart, athletic, pretty, or fashionable to inspire spite, and was thus shielded from the usual intramural back-stabbing. A kinder interpreter would say that she was simply well-liked, and had good friends, and perhaps that she was too valuable a resource to offend.

Mary-Cath drove home after school one day, at the wheel of her Senior-year present. She arrived, as on every school day, at an empty house, with two hours to herself before her parents might arrive. She dropped her backpack on her bedroom floor, then kicked off her shoes before flopping onto her bed. She lay there for a few minutes, just relaxing, then grabbed her laptop from the floor, opened it, and quickly navigated to her well-hidden, private folder of photos.

She started the viewer in a familiar place: at a series of pictures taken at a recent overnight party. There had been ten girls there, all with cell-phone cameras, and all had shared their pictures around the group; Mary-Catherine had an abundance of images to browse through.

She used one hand on the keyboard: next… next… next. The other crept under her brief school skirt, into her plain white bikini panties, and down over her waiting, already moist pussy. She stroked her cleft with practiced ease.

Next… next. She frigged her quim, touching inside her lips, growing wetter as she viewed each picture. The series was a familiar one, and she knew where the climax of images would come; knew how to time her own arousal to peak at the same point.

There had been a point at the party when the girls were changing into nightwear — PJ pants and tank tops, most of them — and a pillow fight had broken out, distracting them in various states of undress, and propelling them into tangles of laughing, squealing, squirming bodies. There was Dianna in that skimpy pink tank, with her nipples bursting against the ribbed fabric. Mary-Cath's fingers probed and stroked, her pussy making slick, sticky sounds in the quiet bedroom. There was Lexi in bra and panties, bent almost double. The panties were taut over her ass and outlined her pussy from behind. There was a pile of four: Isabel, Kim, Maggie, and M.C. herself, bare legs entwined, heads on tummies and chests and thighs, hands wandering oh so innocently every which way. Tendrils of Kim's long hair were draped across Mary-Catherine's leg. She remembered how that felt.

With a moan she yanked her panties down her thighs. Then her hand was back, busy, stroking, rubbing, wet and slippery and urgent and effective, faster and faster as her breathing grew coarse and her face flushed.

Next.

Mary-Catherine, Lexi, Amanda. Maggie, Grace, and Emma. Piled together, in and out of clothes, an abundance of bare soft skin. Grace's pajama shorts loose at the leg, riding up, so high and open that her precious pussy was almost visible — oh, with just the slightest effort of imagination it could be made so — and Emma's top gaping, showing one little breast with its proud nipple, and… and… Lexi's hand right on Mary-Catherine's bottom, half on panties and half on skin… it had been so warm, felt so good, felt so —

Her orgasm shook her, and she cried out as the pleasure overwhelmed her modesty and restraint and… everything.

Much later, uniform replaced with sweats, books open for studying, Mary-Catherine took a minute to browse some favorite sex sites on the Internet. It was good to be informed about what boys did, and what boys thought about, and how boys felt. It was so important to keep up appearances with her girlfriends.

— Frenulum

Email

Someone posting anonymously yesterday asked me for some technical advice. Although I got a notification, the comment doesn’t appear on the blog. This is mysterious.

In any event, I would have had no good way to answer. Anonymous comments on posts are fine, but if you’re interested in opening a conversation, please use email. That way we won't distract all the other readers (billions of people!) with a chat on side topics.

See here for my address.

Thanks,

— Frenulum

Final grade

On the last Friday of the school year, I left early, about three-thirty. Nobody would mind. All of the serious academic work was done; next week would consist of special events, assemblies, parties on various excuses, and tearful farewells for the Senior girls.

As I walked home, I looked back on the year. All things considered, a good one. After twenty-six years in the classroom I didn’t have to fret about mechanics; the challenge and excitement came from the ever-changing collection of students with their individual styles, personalities, contributions, and needs.

The year had held only one disappointment: Maddie, a Senior, who had slid away from academics in the last semester. Not just in my class: all her teachers had commented. I was going to have to fail her, which would mean a delayed diploma, a serious hitch in her college plans, summer school — all sorts of heartache and disruption. Such a shame. I had tried to get through to her.

I took my jacket off as I walked, and enjoyed the sunshine. Winter had been long and frigid, and Spring was all the more welcome for it.

I was half way up my front walk when I noticed that the porch swing was moving. Curious, I mounted my front steps.

“Hi, Mr. Mills,” said a voice from the swing.

“Maddie, I’m surprised to see you here,” I replied. The object of my recent thoughts was lying on the swing, her head against one arm rest, stretched out along its length. She still wore her school clothes: a white cotton blouse, the official pleated plaid skirt at its quite unofficially abbreviated length, white ankle socks, and black flats. Between the skirt hem and socks was about a mile and a half of gorgeous bare legs, a sight to which years of teaching had not entirely inured me. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m gonna fail math, right?” she asked, voice low and lazy, not betraying any real concern. Before I could answer she continued, “Yeah, I am. Any way to fix that?”

I felt so bad for her. Smart, popular, beautiful, and out of options. But it was too late. “No, Maddie, I’m afraid not. There’s no time left for re-tests or extra credit. Grades are due on Tuesday.”

“Thought so,” she said. Her eyes searched my face, and I hope found concern and kindness.

She slid her near leg sideways toward me, so it fell off the side of the swing. She tucked her other foot toward her, raising her knee. Her kilt slid up her bare thigh as her legs parted. I found myself looking up between them at pale pink bikini panties stretched tautly over her pussy, the thin cotton curving inward in the center to outline her cleft.

Slowly, she reached down with one slim finger, and trailed her fingertip along that line. The cotton dampened, clinging even more tightly.

“So,” she said, eyes directly on mine. “The only question is: would you like me naked, or would fucking me in my uniform turn you on even more?”

— Frenulum

Change of season

Undecorating the tree always felt a little sad: the end of a season of parties and celebrations, months of grey winter ahead.

So they made it a little festive, with peppy music and fizzy wine to accompany the chore. They talked while they worked, danced a little, kissed when they bumped.

The last of the ornaments were stowed in their cartons, and only the garlands and lights remained. He pulled a long string of multi-colored beads off the tree, and looped them over her neck. “I should decorate you,” he announced with a smile.

He looped the beads around her twice, then pulled another string off the tree and wrapped them around her shoulders and torso. She twirled and giggled, happy with his hands on her body. Another strand followed, and another.

“I can’t move,” she laughed. “You’ve tied me up like a… a captive princess.”

A sly grin appeared on his face. “You can’t move?”

“Not a bit.”

He reached up under her skirt and pulled her panties down to her ankles, ignoring her squeal of mock outrage. Around the panties he wrapped a string of gold and silver stars. Hobbled, she let herself be pushed, hop by hop, to the couch, where with a final shove he tumbled her onto her back. He grabbed the stars and pulled, bending her double; if she struggled, the points bit gently through her panties. Her breathing deepened and her eyes grew wide. Playtime was changing.

He stroked her with his free hand from clit to asshole, spreading her glistening honey, and planned what he might do with his captive princess.

And then he told her, in explicit detail, what he had decided.

— Frenulum