1 comments/ 35969 views/ 5 favorites Jane By: inneedofrelease Her name was Jane and I had known her for as long as I could remember. Our parents were good friends with each other and they went out together on a regular basis and, as we lived quite a distance from each other we often stayed at each others houses overnight. It was 1983 and I was a naive 16 year old back then who had no experience with girls at all. She was 19 and to me the most beautiful woman in the world. Of course I had raging hormones (I still do) and I lusted after her like you wouldn't believe. In hindsight I'm sure I wasn't subtle but I thought at the time that she never saw the furtive looks I gave her as we spent time together. If I was lucky I would get a glimpse down her top at a bit of lacy bra or for me the jackpot was a brief look at her panties under her skirt. These fleeting images would fuel my fantasies as I would masturbate incessantly once I was alone. On one occasion my parents and I were guests at her house. I had slept late and woke around 10am to find a note on the bedside table telling me that both sets of parents had headed off early to visit some local attraction. They wouldn't be back for another hour or so and for Jane and I to make our own breakfast. As I slept nude even back then I got up and put on a pair of jogging bottoms and a t-shirt and went to see what Jane was up to. It soon became apparent that she was still in bed as well. I made my way to her room to knock and see if she was ready to eat. Upon reaching her door I saw it was slightly open. Now as I said I was very naive and certainly not confident and so my decision not to knock but to gently push her door open still amazes me to this day. Lust is a powerful thing of course and I was hoping against hope that I would see something, anything. She was sleeping soundly on her side with her back to me and the covers were all crumpled but as I crept quietly closer, it occurred to me that by lifting them just slightly I might be able to see her ass. My cock twitched at this thought and I very gently, with shaking hands, moved the covers to expose what was to me the most erotic sight. The beautifully pert cheeks of her bum encased in a pretty pair of white panties that were subtly decorated with small blue flowers. My cock instantly began to grow and harden as I stared, completely transfixed at this wonderful sight. I don't know how long I stood there but I soon became aware that my cock was so hard it was becoming painful. It made an enormous tent in my jogging bottoms and some leaking pre-cum was causing a wet patch to appear on the front. Again, lust had taken over all rational thought and without thinking, I pushed them down to my ankles allowing my cock to spring free. As quietly as I could, to avoid waking Jane, I started to gently stroke myself in order to get some relief. My plan was to ejaculate on to the floor beside her bed and to clean it up before she woke. I never got the chance. Whether I made too much noise, or whether she hadn't actually been asleep, I never found out but with a sudden swift movement she flipped over on to her back and stared at me wide eyed. I immediately released my cock and froze as I waited for her to scream and for my world to end. But she didn't, she just continued to stare her eyes switching from my face to my cock and back to my face for what seemed like an eternity. I think under normal circumstances, fear would have caused my cock to soften and go limp but due to the fact that flipping on to her back had caused the bed covers to slip to the floor exposing her entire body to me caused it to stay as rigid as steel. Besides her panties she wore nothing but a white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the dark areas around her nipples. Her legs were just slightly parted and a faint indication of her labia was visible beneath the soft cotton of her knickers. These erotic visions caused my cock to twitch and to leak copious amounts of pre-cum which seemed to cause her eyes to widen even further but she still remained silent. Eventually she once again looked me directly in the eyes as her face softened slightly and she raised her hand as an invitation for me to hold it. I was trembling so much from fear but I took her hand and she squeezed it slightly in a sign of encouragement and pulled me gently closer to the edge of her bed. My cock, standing proudly straight out in front of me, was now positioned so that it's tip was no more than six inches from her panty covered pussy and aiming directly at it. Even in my naivety I noticed that her complexion was now slightly flushed, her nipples had hardened and that a small damp patch had appeared at her crotch. Finally she throatily spoke the only words of the entire encounter..."Don't stop". I was still frozen but with the help of another encouraging squeeze of my hand and my now off-the-scale horniness, I took a hold of my cock and began to stimulate myself again. Her eyes were now fixed on what I was doing as she struggled to control her breathing and with a lick of her lips, she parted her legs a little further and I was treated to the sight of the damp patch on her panties spreading further. I think she realised and I'm not sure if this was embarrassing for her as with her free hand she started to inch them down. She managed to get them to just below her pussy gracing me with my first look at a real set of female genitals. Her pussy lips glistened at me and it was matched with the glistening of the gusset of her panties, a sight and smell I will never forget. It was too much for me, before she could lower them any further, I closed my eyes and with a grunt I had the most powerful spasm as my hot jism sprayed directly in to the gusset of her panties on to the lips of her pussy. The next arced higher over her head and on to her pillow, the next on her t-shirt and the final one dribbled on to her thigh. I was completely drained but I was also elated. She smiled at me, such a sexy smile. I opened my mouth to speak. I needed to apologise, to thank her for her wonderful gift, to somehow give the same pleasure she gave me. But before I could say anything we both heard the slam of a car door directly outside. We leapt in to action, I yanked up my jogging bottoms and I noted with a degree of satisfaction that she pulled her panties up squishing my semen in to her wispy bush. I hurried to her door and paused, I gave her one last longing look and she winked at me. I smiled and left her room. Jane I paid a visit to the modern purpose-built British Library, which stands, or rather sprawls, next to the architecturally wondrous St Pancras Station in London. In one of the exhibition halls, there were rows upon rows of displays of artefacts, scrolls and artwork dating back to ancient Egypt and beyond. Amongst the original manuscripts were musical scores by Mozart, Bach and Beethoven, complete with scrawled orchestration, blots, alterations, obliterations and smudges, such that a mediocre amateur pianoforte player such as myself could not begin to decipher them, let alone turn them into beautiful symphonic melodies. There too was the original parchment on which Anne Boleyn wrote, imploring Cardinal Wolsey to expedite the divorce of King Henry VIII from Catherine of Aragon, so he be free to wed his true love, namely Anne herself. Also on display, under reinforced glass, and in subdued lighting to protect and preserve every priceless item, were sections of manuscripts by great English authors such as Hardy, Dickens, Carroll, Eliot and Brontë. I paused, as if magnetically attracted, at one particular exhibit. It was hers. I had found it. I had arrived. The very writing desk at which she sat. A tiny, simple wood-framed workplace, complete with inkwell and blotter. There, open plainly to see, was one of her manuscripts. Not a copy, nor reproduction. THE very pages on which she scribed her plots, inventions, commentaries and dreams. Like Beethoven's originals, it was littered with crossings-out, ringed phrases with arrows pointing to where they should be re-inserted, name changes and spilled ink. My knees went wobbly and I welled up. Tears fell uncontrollably from my face onto the glass plate. Fellow visitors shuffled by, anxious to cover as much of the library's collection as possible in their time available. They probably thought I was barmy. I continued to sob, but the glass had melted away, as if dissolved by my tears. They directly wetted the manuscript and I became cross with myself for allowing my melancholy to damage writing paper which currently was in such scarce commodity. My brother Henry was due to visit at the weekend, should a carriage become available, and I desperately hoped he would bring a ream. A new quill pen too, if that was not too much to hope for - the nib of this one has become so troublesome. I reviewed my morning's work. Frustrated by its untidiness, I daydreamed - shameful imaginings worthy only of a silly girl. Henry would bring me a magic pen. One possessed of the Genie of the Dictionary. Should I carelessly misspell a word, it would, in a nonce, underscore the offending word with a squiggly line. I smiled at the ludicrousness of the idea, though it certainly would have saved my blushes on the occasion I submitted "Love and Freindship" for public approval. My mind wandered back to the mixed fortunes of earlier in the day. My "First Impressions" effort, yet another one, rejected by the publishers, marked "Declined by return of post"... and the other strange package which the messenger claimed was already on our doorstep. It had contained a small cylinder, metallic and smooth, befitting a Maharajah's jewel collection judging by its lustre and the perfection of its finish. After luncheon, I returned to "Elinor and Marianne" wondering if the Dashwood sisters would fare better than the Bennets in the reading public's literary consciousness. Should I spice up the romantic encounters to make the work more acceptable to a male readership? After all, publishing, like everything else these days, business, politics, even the so-called electoral democracy was subject to an exclusively male stranglehold. I recalled spice of my own. That occasion when I was but 20 years. Thomas had just graduated from university, and we came together at the September ball. I had the jolliest time of my life as we danced and danced, chatted about Oxford's marvellous Bodleian Library, and danced some more. We naughtily sneaked a glass of Sherry, that pungent liqueur made by the over-fermentation of Spanish grapes. We also naughtily sneaked unchaperoned to outside, where the seductive moonlight teases and tempts one to make courageous and indiscreet advances on one's dancing companion. Tom leant over and kissed my lips. I remember thinking "Is that it? Is there no accompanying embrace nor awkward fondling?" I considered swooning into his arms, but thought better of it, having lampooned the conventions of romantic novels in my own stories. But maybe I should have, because to my surprise, he held out his hand and placed it on my breast, holding it motionless for what seemed like an eternity. An eternity which came to a sudden end when more people noisily joined us on the patio. Tom and I were well suited, but he was a penniless trainee barrister, and I a penniless would-be author. A marriage, even though sanctionable by Heaven was not socially acceptable on Earth, and we never saw each other again. Earlier this year, some seven years on from the encounter with Tom, was my adventure with Harris. He was an unattractive man in both appearance and manner, though I myself boast not to resemble the peach placed at the top of the basket. Neither was he couth in matters of art and literature. But he was sufficient of funds and represented the safest investment for guaranteeing a degree of comfort in dotage for myself and my beloved sister Cassandra. I accepted Harris's proposal of marriage, and that night he came to my chamber. I neither rejected his advances nor enthusiastically welcomed them. In these times, maidens are expected 'not to make a fuss' lest their name be besmirched ever more, their character being tainted whether they were willing or not. I remember bleeding, and thinking "I am damaged goods." But I also mischievously imagined that should a future encounter occur, with a more compassionate suitor, I should be well placed, as a story teller, to explain any number of ways my hymen could already have been ruptured. I withdrew my acceptance the following morning. A marriage devoid of affection is a life imprisonment, financial security or no. I caressed the cylinder again, reminding myself of its eerily smooth, but comforting feel. To my astonishment, the receptacle started to split in two, and by twisting one half further, it opened right up. I was somewhat disappointed. There were no new quills, and no ink bottles. And no Genie escaped from captivity, offering to reward its rescuer with untold fame and fortune. Merely a piece of card, folded as per an invitation to a ball. But alas, the writing on it made no sense. Perhaps the sender had adopted some Roman deity as a nom-de-plume. It was certainly a name unfamiliar to me. Indeed, the sender professed their love, which surely was mischief - I seem to socialise less and less these days. And what on earth were these 'gifts' of which they speak? I decided to postpone the puzzle until the evening, when Cassandra would be here to assist in unravelling the mystery. I was still fiddling with the plot lines of "Susan" when Cassie arrived. We had some tea and talked about our respective days. I broached the subject of the cylinder and the strange wording within. "Perhaps 'tis a time capsule with a message from beyond" my playful sister suggested humorously. Cassandra took the card and read the message slowly and aloud. "Dearest Jane. Thank you for all your precious gifts. Everlasting love, Trina." * Jane Austen (1775 - 1817) One of the most widely read authors of romantic fiction in English literature. Died prematurely, of an illness. Never married. Her novels have rarely been out of print to this day. * Elinor and Marianne - revised and eventually published as "Sense and Sensibility". * First Impressions - revised and eventually published as "Pride and Prejudice". * Susan - working title of "Northanger Abbey" published posthumously.