Virgin Exotica

Chapter 1 Pilot “…and then, he pushed into me so hard that I could feel him hitting my g-spot right away. And you guys wanna know how he made me climax?” “How? How?” A chorus of whiney voices followed. I had a hunch it had more to do with technique than how the narrator had the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life. “He bit down on my n****e so hard that I still have his teeth marks on them. OMG! It was like, the best night of my life!” Another chorus of “ooh” followed by shrill ear-splitting laughter and then everything went quite. “Ow!”I rubbed my poor ears. I opened the door quietly and tiptoed out of the stall. Note to self: washrooms are the best place to gather motivation...and techniques. And you must be wondering why I was hiding in a bathroom stall, eavesdropping on the queen bees’ talk about their s*x lives? So let me introduce myself. My name is Akira Sanders, pen name is Miss OG (short for orgasm) and I was the best erotic romance writer in Imphal, Idaho a small town on the border of Montana. Sadly, being an 18 year old virgin meant that I lack the experience needed to write a proper erotica, so eavesdropping was one of my main (and favorite) sources of info, along with watching a hell lotof porn and reading thousands of erotic novels. To say that I could write my very own Kama Sutra would be an understatement. And no, not all erotica authors were sluts, we just had a better idea of what the populace liked to read...under the covers. And yes, Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes, that includes you, too. Anyways, I was an erotic romance writer (yes, that's a category). It did not mean that it was all about s*x, s*x and more s*x. Contrary to popular belief, erotica had story lines, too, and it did not include sleeping with every guy on sight. I quickly write down my ideas on a notepad. The cover had a Miss OG designed on the inside with my special signature on the bottom. That signature was how my readers identify my books. But this was my secret diary where I wrote all my dirty stuff for the novels. Stuff that were collected during lunch time washroom gossips. I was a pretty successful writer but recently I had been running out of luck. I never thought I would be this famous. It all started from a tiny story that I wrote for a men's magazine, a nerd satisfying her hidden fantasies of a hot blonde haired man giving her “the best night of her life” inside a classroom and the next thing I knew, I was being called to their office, being offered a par time job, which paid me $120 a month. And as a result of too much indulgent writing, I was now running out of ideas with a deadline hanging over my head. I just needed one more epic scene to complete my story and I seemed to have emptied my entire brain right when I needed it the most! Scribbling done, I scowled as I read it over and over but it just didn't seem to fit in with the rest of my story. I mean, biting someone's t**s to cause an orgasm, I probably invented that rule...or not? Oh, well! Tucking the diary securely under my arm I poked my head out the washroom door to scan the hallway. Break time was almost over and I still hadn’t eaten anything, but it was a small price to pay for the big bucks I would get at the end of the month. The hall was empty so I opened the washroom door fully and stepped out. I might be a famous writer but it was all a secret. In reality I was the awkward nerd with the perfect grades and impeccable manners, whom the teachers loved and others ignored. It was a good thing that I didn't get bullied like the typical nerds in the cliché romance novels. Here, I was simply invisible. This was a good thing because people here were very conservative. Things like an 18 year old writing an erotic novel would generally be frowned upon—not that people were hostile or anything. We were all left alone, but I just didn’t want to be the newest gossip in town. I walked to my locker to get books for my next class but I was still so deep in thought that I didn’t notice what was in front of me and ended up bumping into a wall. The impact had me dropping the diary from my hand and falling backwards. I gasped and closed my eyes, waiting for my bum to hit the floor. Only, it wasn't a wall that I’d walked into, but a person whose arms wrapped around my waist and his delicious manly cologne blew my senses away. I peeked open an eye and gasped again. Oh, no! Oh, god, no! Not Ethan f*****g Whitmore! It was an extremely rare occasion that a teacher was awfully famous with his students, or should I say, for sleeping with his students. But Ethan Whitmore was that rarity. He was a fresh-out-of-college trainee teacher who was as good at teaching as he was in bed…at least that was what the washroom walls whispered to me. Most of the queen bees slept with him and went to great lengths to elaborate their point, not to mention that I might have used him as my ideal male lead in some of my stories... scratch that—most of my stories. But if you saw his Greek god-likelooks, you'd understand why I did what I did. But in school I made sure not to join his enormous fan club or I would risk getting my secret out. “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”He smirked at me, steadying me and then pushing me away. Why wasn't he in jail again? Because he probably slept his way out of there. Thank you, dear conscience. “You wish!” I said, putting on an outwardly show of dusting my shirt where he had touched me like it was contaminated. You're so hopeless! Shut the f**k up conscience! “Oh, I know you do”. His smirk widened. Ethan Whitmore, despite being a jerk and an amazing teacher, was very handsome. Did I mention that? He had short blond hair and forest green eyes that anyone could get lost in. But he was a womanizer and a heart breaker, and he never did girlfriends. He slept with girls no matter the age—well, I think he slept with anything with a p***y. “Oh? What do we have here? A secret diary?” he said snapping me out of my thoughts as he bent down to retrieve my secret journal. Un-f*****g-believable! How could I have forgotten my diary? I made an attempt to grab it but he being so Goddamned tall at 6’4” to my short 5’5”, he easily picked it up and held in up to his face and turned the cover. “What the...?” His eyes were wide as he looked at the logo of Miss OG and my handwritten signature and then at me. Then proceeded to repeat the process all over again…and again. And that people, was how I knew that s**t just hit the fan.