It had been all of six hours since the time in the club room where Tanaka had told Ennoshita about his fantasies of having a girl to root for him. It was strange, but he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He didn’t have a specific girl in mind, most of the time he never did. He thought of long hair sometimes, and how it would feel to run his fingers through it, or of soft skin, or of nice smelling perfume. He thought skirts looked nice, they made a person’s thighs look particularly shapely, but none of these things, even when put together formed an image of his perfect girl.
Sometimes Tanaka wondered if he liked girls at all or if it was just the idea of them that fascinated him. And here he was, lying in bed in nothing but his underwear, unable to stop thinking about this image he’d crafted: long hair and flowery smell and a pretty skirt.
He’d felt the low level arousal all day, which hadn’t even been dampened by Ennoshita’s questioning glare, or the practice that they’d had afterwards. He was keyed up, and he had to do something with this mental image.
His hand slid into his underwear, sticking slightly on the skin of his stomach. He felt the hair that trailed from his navel and rubbed his fingertips over it. He’d realized long ago that his lower stomach was extra sensitive and when he had the time and inclination he tried to focus on making himself feel extra good. By the time his fingers reached his dick he was at least half hard and it wasn’t difficult to stroke himself to full hardness.
He thought about how it would feel if that long hair was hanging down, barely touching the skin of his chest while a hand that wasn’t his worked at his cock. He couldn’t imagine the hand, no matter what it just felt like his: large, callouses on his fingertips and palm from hitting too many volleyballs, and experienced. He wished he had some perfume, though he didn’t know how he’d explain it to his mother or sister, or god forbid his dad if they found it, but it just wasn’t possible to focus on a made up smell, not when his hand was tight and stroking his dick.
He moved his hand faster and imagined a skirt, first thinking about how it would lay against a pair of generic thighs and then imagining how it would feel. He thought of the fabric under his fingertips, sliding his hand beneath the skirt, rucking it up around a waist. It wasn’t enough; he imagined the skirt against his thighs, how it would lay when he sat down, how it would ride up in the back, and the backs of his thighs would be bare against the sheets. He pictured himself pulling it up, rubbing the fabric over the sensitive skin of his upper thighs, how it would feel if he didn’t wear underwear with it.
That image was the best, imagining that the slight touch of his underwear, still around his hips was a skirt, thinking of touching himself with the fabric laying softly over the back of his hand. His hips jerked up, muscles tensing as his hand moved at a steady and fast pace. He swiped his thumb over the head of his cock and shivered, and then moved his hips again, pushing in a rhythm against his fingers until he came wet and sticky over his hand and underwear.
It was a mess, but he collapsed back, head pressed into the pillow and breathed deeply for a few seconds before cleaning up.
FILL Team: Nishinoya Yuu/Tanaka Ryuunosuke, Rated: E
626 words
It had been all of six hours since the time in the club room where Tanaka had told Ennoshita about his fantasies of having a girl to root for him. It was strange, but he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He didn’t have a specific girl in mind, most of the time he never did. He thought of long hair sometimes, and how it would feel to run his fingers through it, or of soft skin, or of nice smelling perfume. He thought skirts looked nice, they made a person’s thighs look particularly shapely, but none of these things, even when put together formed an image of his perfect girl.
Sometimes Tanaka wondered if he liked girls at all or if it was just the idea of them that fascinated him. And here he was, lying in bed in nothing but his underwear, unable to stop thinking about this image he’d crafted: long hair and flowery smell and a pretty skirt.
He’d felt the low level arousal all day, which hadn’t even been dampened by Ennoshita’s questioning glare, or the practice that they’d had afterwards. He was keyed up, and he had to do something with this mental image.
His hand slid into his underwear, sticking slightly on the skin of his stomach. He felt the hair that trailed from his navel and rubbed his fingertips over it. He’d realized long ago that his lower stomach was extra sensitive and when he had the time and inclination he tried to focus on making himself feel extra good. By the time his fingers reached his dick he was at least half hard and it wasn’t difficult to stroke himself to full hardness.
He thought about how it would feel if that long hair was hanging down, barely touching the skin of his chest while a hand that wasn’t his worked at his cock. He couldn’t imagine the hand, no matter what it just felt like his: large, callouses on his fingertips and palm from hitting too many volleyballs, and experienced. He wished he had some perfume, though he didn’t know how he’d explain it to his mother or sister, or god forbid his dad if they found it, but it just wasn’t possible to focus on a made up smell, not when his hand was tight and stroking his dick.
He moved his hand faster and imagined a skirt, first thinking about how it would lay against a pair of generic thighs and then imagining how it would feel. He thought of the fabric under his fingertips, sliding his hand beneath the skirt, rucking it up around a waist. It wasn’t enough; he imagined the skirt against his thighs, how it would lay when he sat down, how it would ride up in the back, and the backs of his thighs would be bare against the sheets. He pictured himself pulling it up, rubbing the fabric over the sensitive skin of his upper thighs, how it would feel if he didn’t wear underwear with it.
That image was the best, imagining that the slight touch of his underwear, still around his hips was a skirt, thinking of touching himself with the fabric laying softly over the back of his hand. His hips jerked up, muscles tensing as his hand moved at a steady and fast pace. He swiped his thumb over the head of his cock and shivered, and then moved his hips again, pushing in a rhythm against his fingers until he came wet and sticky over his hand and underwear.
It was a mess, but he collapsed back, head pressed into the pillow and breathed deeply for a few seconds before cleaning up.
He really needed to buy a skirt.