Telekinesis - the Undoing Ch. 01

Telekinesis - the undoing of Mandy, Rachel and a few more besides

by Maximilian Cummings

*****

The scene, a college; Mandy, eighteen years old and rather pretty, is having a spot of difficulty in the first lesson of a summer's afternoon.

Mandy could not believe what she was feeling. She was in Mr Derais' lesson trying to concentrate on the complex explanations he was giving and it felt just like someone's fingers were playing with her nipples. It had started as just a bit of a sensation inside her bra; an increased awareness of her nipples being there, but gradually it had developed into something more. Usually she was not particularly aware of her nipples: they were just there.

When in the bath or shower and certainly in bed when she was bringing herself off, then she was, indeed, more than a little aware of her nipples. But not in a physics lesson!

At first it felt like a finger stroking round and round her left areola; that stopped and then the same feeling started on the right. Mandy tried to ignore the feeling but it would not go away. She glanced right and then left, but none of the other students were watching so she gave herself a quick scratch. She could feel her own nails on her nipples right through her bra and blouse but the scratching did not ease the sensation. What was more the feeling seemed to be getting worse; it was as if fingers were just lightly pinching and pulling at her nipples

It felt so real that she wondered if she would actually see the material of her bra and blouse moving, but she dare not look down as the eyes of Mr Derais were now very clearly looking in her direction. Perhaps he thought she was not concentrating - she was not! Was he able to see what she could not, that her breasts now seemed to be gently moving up and down of their own accord?

The sudden ending of the movement on her breasts came as such a relief. Mandy could not understand what had happened but at least it seemed over. Perhaps it had all been in her head but it had felt so very real. Certainly her nipples had responded by hardening somewhat. She was not sure her face had not reddened as well.

Mandy lent forward to try and concentrate on Mr Derais. As usual he was challenging the students, trying to take them to a higher level. His illustrations on the board complex. Was it just she who was not properly concentrating? She tried her very best but it was hot in the classroom. It always was hot in that particular classroom. The windows were too big and faced south. What sensible architect would have done that?

Fidgeting in a lesson is distracting to the teacher and other students. The teacher is worried he is boring the students but it may, just as easily, be a need to visit the lavatory. Mr Derais glared at Mandy but she could not help her fidgeting. It now felt like something or rather somebody was tugging at her panties, tugging right up inside her skirt. She moved from one buttock to the other trying to stop the feeling. It only really stopped when she realised her panties were not where they should be - snugly around her hips but were actually rather below that and loose around her upper thigh. Somehow they had slipped and if she stood up (and there was no way she was going to do that in Mr Derais' lesson until it was over) they would have slipped down around her ankles - undoubtedly to the derision of her classmates.

However, there was no need to stand up - the panties were slipping down her legs unaided by gravity. Mandy's right hand shot out - or rather down - and grasped them, halting their descent. But she could not do that for long. Mr Derais would expect her hand to be holding her pen and writing, or at least pretending to write. Reluctantly she let go and the panties slipped - or were they pulled - to her ankles.

Mandy had no idea how, at the end of the lesson, she was going to pull them up again. Perhaps the easiest thing to do would be to step nonchalantly out of them and hope nobody noticed her or them. Perhaps she would then have the chance to reach down and grab them, crumple them into a ball in her hand, and all her classmates would think - if they even noticed - was she had dropped her pen. This stratagem proved unnecessary as, one after another, she felt her feet being raised and when she looked down her panties were gone. Where were they?

The panties were scuttling across the floor like a little mouse; creeping along the skirting board. Could nobody else see them? It seemed everybody else in the class was concentrating on Mr Derais' illustration on the board and at what he was saying. Nobody was watching her panties, her new pair of green panties, creeping across the floor and up the leg of Mr Derais' desk. One moment there they were and the next the lid had lifted and they had disappeared inside. Mandy's new pair of panties were in Mr Derais' desk!

Mandy was not concentrating on Mr Derais, no, not at all. Something was very wrong and she knew she should say something; she should put her hand up and tell Mr Derais. But what could she say?

"Sir, I'm feeling funny. My nipples have become all sensitive and now my knickers have fallen down and walked over to your desk. Please sir, look inside and you'll see what I say is true."

She could not do it, could not embarrass herself in front of the whole class. Let alone face Mr Derais whose uncertain temper and strictness were legendary. And then she felt just the tiniest touch on the inside of her thigh as if a hand was lightly resting there. She froze and clamped her legs tightly together and stared at Mr Derais and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. Perhaps the feeling would go away and she could get to the end of the lesson safely.

How was she to retrieve her panties though? She could surely not go around the college without them and she could hardly leave them in Mr Derais desk. What would he think when he found them in there? Of course, there was no way he could know they were hers unless he ordered a personal inspection of all the girls but that was just a bit unlikely!

Clamping her thighs together did not seem to do any good. Slowly but surely she felt them pushed apart. There was nothing she could do to stop the gap widening. She could feel but not see the hands on her legs. Slowly but surely her thighs were inexorably spread wide.

Across the room, Mr Derais' desk lid slowly opened a bit. Mandy was worried, surely her panties were not going to resume their tour of the room and come back to her? It was not Mandy's panties that crept out but Mr Derais' pen, his fountain pen. The Parker he so carefully marked their assignments with; made scathing remarks in the margins; wrote pertinent and accurate annual reports. It slid quietly to the floor behind one of the desk's legs and just like a mouse made its way to the edge of the classroom and then slipped slowly along the skirting. Mandy was sure it was coming her way, could almost feel its intention but what was it going to do? Sit on her desk and make Mr Derais think she had stolen it?

That was not its intention. Its intention proved quite different. Mr Derais seemed, again, to have his eye on her and she paid mock attention, staring in his general direction. It was then that she felt the pen touch her foot. Mandy tried to push it away as if it was a troublesome insect: but that did not work. She could feel it on her calf, felt it climbing to her knee and then, to her consternation, felt it slip under her skirt. It slid up her inner thigh where her skin was so soft and sensitive. What was it doing there? It then came to her, a dreadful certainty about what the pen intended to do and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was unable to pull her thighs together and clamp them shut around her sex.

It could not really be happening. Pens did not move by themselves, panties did not slide down by themselves, one did not feel invisible hands pulling open one's thighs - not in a physics lesson. Not anywhere. Mandy had a terrific urge to get up and run from the lesson but she did not dare. Not from Mr Derais' lesson. He frightened her and she did not dare. She felt rooted to the spot. And then she felt the pressure on her shoulders holding her down.

Mandy had thought, several times before, that Mr Derais's thick Parker pen had something of the penis about it, It was rounded, bulbous and, she had joked with her friends, he clasped it in his hand just like they thought he would his penis. They could not imagine Mr Derais having sex with anyone but himself. What woman would have him?

The pen had slowed its progress, its movement upwards had become a snail's pace but it had not stopped, it was still progressing, very slowly, up her thigh. It seemed Mr Derais' eyes were focused on Mandy as the tip of the pen touched her; she did not dare move or take her eyes from his; she tried to concentrate on what he was saying but it was very difficult as, beneath her skirt, one end of the fountain pen - the cap or the rounded base - was slowly pushing itself into her like a thin, smooth, hard erection. It was not difficult for it. The earlier feelings had seen to that. Mandy knew she was wet, could feel she was wet. She hoped her skirt would not show it.

She gripped the sides of her desk and stared intently at Mr Derais but she could not even make out what he was saying. The pen, Mr Derais' fountain pen, was almost completely within her. Approximately six inches long so there was room. Had not boys pushed their erections into her that far? Had she not played with the handle of her hairbrush which was about that length? It would fit. Perhaps, she hoped, it would cease its movement and just rest there, like a rabbit in its burrow, so perhaps, just perhaps, she could sneak it back into Mr Derais' desk at the end of class.

But no, the pen did not cease its movement. It began to move just like her boyfriends' penises had done. In and out, in and out, backwards and forwards. At least there was no risk, Mandy thought, of ejaculation. The movement was persistent as if a hand was moving it and it was a movement that did nothing to lessen her arousal. In, out, in, out.

There was a pause, a withdrawal of the pen from her.

Mandy was sure a flush had appeared on her cheeks but with everyone concentrating on Mr Derais is would not be noticed. What might have been noticed, had anyone been looking at her or her desk, was the appearance of the pen - or rather the cap of the pen coming up over the side of her desk and settling itself right in front of her. Her eyes spotted the movement, spotted it creeping across her desk and spotted that it did not simply have its usual glossy appearance but possessed a positive sheen - a sheen of wetness. Her eyes jerked up again, not simply out of worry about what Mr Derais might say of her inattention but the sudden feeling of the returning pen, very clearly minus its cap. Was it re-entering with the bulbous end uppermost or, worryingly, with the sharp nib pointing upwards? Why had the cap come off! She braced herself for the sharp pricking sensation of a gold nib catching her in a most intimate place. But none came. Nonetheless she could feel it easing into her.

Her relaxation was premature as, all of a sudden, she felt deep within her a squirting, an ejaculation no less. Something she was not exactly unused to. For a moment she was puzzled and then it came to her - Mr Derais' fountain pen was doing just what it could do and expelling its ink, the turquoise blue ink Mr Derais wrote with, right inside her. The nib was indeed uppermost inside her and squirting ink - or rather, and she knew this to be the exactly what was implied by the action - ejaculating ink into her vagina. Spurt, spurt, spurt.

Slowly the pen withdrew and, after a moment, it appeared over the top of her desk, the discharge, the ejaculation of the turquoise ink showing wetly around the upper barrel. It too crept across the desk and slowly inserted itself, almost sexually, into the top and clicked tight and rotated until it was firmly attached and then all was still.

The strange activity seemed to have ended: but there was Mr Derais' pen sitting on her desk right in front of her, her panties were in Mr Derais' desk and, worst of all, Mandy had the awful feeling the ink was dripping from her and making a turquoise blue patch on her skirt.

Picasso had a blue period and, now, so did she.