Shania’s Short Story by JeffersonMerrick
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author retains the right to be identified as the sole author of this short story.
Shania sits at her computer in her semi-darkened bedroom. Her privacy is assured as her family are out at her aunt’s house until ten o’clock. She is wearing a grey cotton T-shirt and pink panties. The evening is warm enough to leave the windows open. She is home from Nielson’s College for the summer break. She has time to spare. She does not want to waste it so she has given herself a project, a goal. She looks at the empty white screen; a weak lamp above the desk lights the keyboard. The submission guidelines on the short-story site she found on line state 3000 words minimum, 5000 maximum. She waits patiently for inspiration. Write what you know, the teacher on her creative writing course at Nielson tells her. Shania sits deep in thought, pondering what she knows.
Write about your experience, he tells them. At the tender age of eighteen and eight months, she does not know a great deal. She still lives at home with her mum in the spacious bungalow where she was born. She scans back over the recent years of her short life; prep school, high school. A prom night she did not enjoy. She has one weekend a month with her dad in the neighboring city but that is nothing to write about. They just watch a movie and eat at some fancy restaurant. He spends all evening pawing his new wife. There have been a few family holidays before her dad left with his secretary five years ago. She attends a few parties but she neither drinks alcohol nor smokes, certainly not weed, like some of her friends so they are a bit of a damp squib. Sometimes she goes out with her mum, generally for a meal somewhere and then a few drinks in a bar. Shania drinks tonic with lime. Her mum is trying to find a new man. She admits to Shania after a few cocktails that she misses sex and wants to find a fuck-buddy. Shania tells her that it is too much information for her innocent mind to assimilate and asks her to talk about something else.
She has attended college since last year. She has been out with a few boys. They all wanted her to make a video where they would get paid ten thousand dollars as long as there was a cum-shot involved, preferably in her mouth or over her face and breasts, they explained. They wanted her to be in the videos because she has great tits and her face looks beautiful, so they told her. She did not go out with them again. It seems the universal past-time at college these days is to make a porn videos for posting on-line. She watched a few on Pornhub with Jill but was never tempted to participate, even if there was some money to be made. Her Mum was well-off and her Dad sent her money every month.
Even Shania’s sex-starved mum would be disappointed with her if she saw her in one of those porno videos. Her friend Melanie showed her, with considerable pride, the video she had made with three seniors during the previous semester. They managed three cum shots between them, one on her breasts and two on her face. The video is high on the list of most watched college videos. Melanie is a star! She told Shania she wanted to go into porn as a career, if there is such a thing, thought Shania. She had already been to two auditions. She was going to film a glory-hole next week, she proudly informed her. Shania had no idea what she was talking about. She would have to look for that on Pornhub, she decided.
She chose to go out with a girl after the bad experiences with boys. It was fine. Neither of them was interested in sex so they got along well for a few brief months. They kissed a few times but it never went any further. Gloria wanted to play with her pussy but Shania decided that she was simply not keen on the idea. Shania’s review of her life led her nowhere. She had very little life experiences worthy of a novel, or even a short story.
She is still a virgin, a rare thing in the 21st Century College environment. She is keeping the boys at arm’s length until she feels ready; she is not ready yet, she has decided. She knows who she wants to be her first. It is not any of the juvenile, lecherous youths who attend Nielson. She wants to give her virginity to one very particular man; the man of her dreams. She sleeps in his dreams every night. He holds her and whispers sweet things in her ear. He strokes her, plays with her breasts and puts his strong hands all over her body. He makes love to her every night, fucking into her hot body with his rigid cock, pumping slowly until they both explode together, every night. Every night she rubs herself to an orgasm. It will not happen for real, ever, she knows that, but she dreams of what might be, one day.
She wants to be a professional writer, a novelist. She knows she has to start somewhere. She has written a few one-page articles for the College magazine but nothing more than a few hundred words. She has decided that writing short stories for magazines and on-line sites would be good practice while she attends Nielson for another two years. She sits at her desk, playing with her short blonde hair, chewing a few stray ends in the corner of her mouth. Her left foot is up on the seat, tucked under her right thigh. She leans her cheek on her knee and thinks. She continues to sit, unmoving, thinking, hoping, even willing inspiration to appear, as if by magic. She begs, as if the Muse will answer her prayers. Sadly, nothing springs to mind. She glances in the mirror beside the desk; all she sees is herself. There is no inspiration coming from that direction.
Disappointed, she opens her web browser and checks her Facebook, What’s App, Instagram and Twitter pages for anything new. She notes two friend requests, which she allows without looking to see who they are; she just wants more friends than her room-mate, Jill. Jill is sleeping with Noel in another housing complex off campus. She has the room to herself for three nights. She scrolls down her news-feed page; there is nothing exciting or even remotely interesting. There is quite a nice white cat doing somersaults but she cannot think of a story to fit that. She tries to resist the temptation and go back to her short story, but it has been about two hours since she last looked; something might have happened in all that time that she desperately needs to know about.
She opens the fan page for her favorite boy band, The Steel Washing Machine. They are coming to her city in a month; she has two tickets to their concert. She might ask her mum to go with her if she does not find anyone else in the meantime. There are five of them; her favorite is Kenny Major, the bass guitarist. She Tweets him almost every day, telling him how much she loves him. She has posted several selfies, all decent though. She knows many girl fans send topless or even naked shots, but she is not like that. She told him about the tickets earlier today. She asked if she could meet him back-stage after the concert. She has not had a reply but she knows that is normal with bands like his. He must get hundreds of such Tweets and requests every day, maybe thousands. At twenty-two, he is not much older than she is. Shania has all their albums on her iPhone and knows every word of every song.
He has posted some news and a few recent new pictures. Several of them show him posing with several different girls before a concert last weekend. One of the girls is around the same height as Shania. She looks a little similar, with the same haircut even. She likes the way he fits his right arm around the girl’s shoulder. It looks in the picture as if his right hand is on her right breast. She guesses it is not actually touching her breast but it certainly looks as if it is. It is just hanging an inch or so in front of it. If he flexed his wrist, he could hold the whole breast in his strong hand.
Shania wonders what it would feel like to have his hand on her breast. She wants to feel his hand on her breast. She wants to feel both his hands on both of her breasts. Her breasts are adequate she feels, better than the girl in the picture. She looks about a B cup. Shania had just bought her first C cup a few weeks ago. Her mum helped her choose it from a little boutique in town. She hopes they will stop growing now she is older. She does not want them any bigger. They are quite a handful as it is.
She feels her left breast with her left hand. Her right hand is clicking on the pictures; she keeps returning to the one with the hand on the breast. She downloads it and opens it in her picture viewer. She enlarges the picture and crops it until she has just the two heads and down to their waists. She squeezes her breast through the thin T-shirt. Her right hand is no longer busy with the picture. She squeezes both breasts. She squeezes quite hard. She likes the feeling as she molds and pulls at the firm mounds of flesh.
She slips the T-shirt over her head and places it under her bottom on the chair. She looks in the mirror once again; she likes what she sees. She keeps in good shape and eats properly; her mum sees to that. She recalls a video her mother liked to watch many times when she was younger. The good-looking singer came out of the television screen and danced with the watching girl. It was a sort of cartoon. Shania tries to remember the name of the band but all she can think of is A-ha, which surely can’t be right. She quite enjoyed the song but it was a hundred years old.
The reflection in the dim light of the mirror alters, shifts, changes; Kenny is in there, in the shadows, watching her. He reaches out his right hand; she takes it and he slides across the desk from the mirror to the computer monitor, his picture becomes real, alive, and warm. He really is here, in the room, squeezing her hands. He drops them and moves his hands directly to her breasts, no delay, no asking permission. He is gently rolling her nipples between his fingers. He is speaking sweet words of love and devotion, telling her how beautiful she is, how he will stay with her forever, love her, make babies with her and give her everything she could ever wish for.