Sexplorer2011
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2011
- Posts
- 201
The rain hadn’t stopped all week.
Not the kind that comes to cleanse—but the kind that lingers. Slow. Steady. The sort of rain that slips under your skin if you let it.
Nathan Cole leaned under the archway outside the media building, fingers curled around a cigarette he didn’t plan to light. Forty-three, and he still kept one tucked in his coat pocket like a relic. Something he’d quit but hadn’t quite let go of—like a hundred other things he wouldn’t name.
His blazer was damp at the shoulders. Aviator glasses hung from the open collar of his shirt. The parking lot behind him was near empty, save for his black ’69 Mustang glistening under the sodium glow, gleaming like a memory left out in the open.
Upstairs, his elective class—*Media Psychology & Narrative Ethics*—had ended nearly half an hour ago. Most students rushed off with their phones in their hands and their focus elsewhere.
Except Grace Whitmore.
She stayed behind.
Twenty-one. Creative, quietly luminous. Red curls tied back with a pencil stuck haphazardly through the knot, her fingers stained with graphite. She wore combat boots and a flannel over a vintage anime tee—brilliant without trying, expressive without apology.
He noticed her from the start. Not for how she looked. But how she listened.
And that was a problem.
Nathan had spent years shaping boundaries into habit. Nothing in his life was impulsive anymore. But Grace made silence feel unsafe.
She descended the hallway like she belonged to it—her sketchpad tucked under one arm, voice low as she approached.
“You left your pad,” Nathan said, gesturing toward the front row where it waited.
Grace smiled, and it wasn’t just polite.
“I know,” she said. “I think I left something else too.”
Her tone was casual. The look in her eyes wasn’t.
Inside, the lecture hall felt different now—empty in all the important ways, full in the ones that mattered. Rain streaked the windows. Light pooled across scattered paper and coffee mugs left behind.
“I read your paper,” Nathan said. “You wrote about empathy as a mechanic. How it influences trust. Beautiful angle.”
She stepped closer, stilling just before the desk.
“I think games are like relationships,” Grace replied. “It’s not what you’re given—it’s what you feel safe enough to choose.”
His jaw tightened. Something flickered in his chest. Her words stayed there.
She pulled out a sketch and handed it to him wordlessly.
It was him—drawn loose and raw. Jacket slung over one shoulder. Mustang behind him. Mouth shadowed. Eyes half-lost behind shades.
Beneath it, she’d written: *“Some stories aren’t wrong. They’re just untimely.”*
Nathan exhaled slowly. She wasn't teasing. She wasn’t flirting. She was naming something neither of them had asked for.
“I don’t show people those,” Grace said quietly. “But I thought maybe you’d understand.”
He folded the sketch carefully. Slipped it into his satchel without a word.
“You’re not like the others,” he said.
“You knew that,” she replied. “That’s why this is dangerous.”
The silence grew full between them. Not awkward. Just alive.
“I like this building after hours,” she murmured. “It makes me feel older.”
Nathan met her gaze. “It makes me wish I wasn’t.”
Grace lingered in the doorway for a breath—then turned and disappeared into the darkened hall.
And Nathan stayed behind.
Holding her sketch like a secret.
Trying not to wonder when restraint would stop feeling like the right thing.
==========================
OOC: This thread delves into the slow-burning tension between an older man and a young woman—Grace—caught between innocence and awakening. If you enjoy emotionally rich, character-driven storytelling with a touch of forbidden allure, you're welcome to join.
Open to additional characters—students, faculty, friends, or anyone who might complicate the dynamic. The role of Grace(the young girl) is open to being played—ladies especially welcome. If you're drawn to her perspective and want to explore her side of the story, let’s collaborate.
DM first if you'd like to plot something deeper. Let’s create something unforgettable.
Not the kind that comes to cleanse—but the kind that lingers. Slow. Steady. The sort of rain that slips under your skin if you let it.
Nathan Cole leaned under the archway outside the media building, fingers curled around a cigarette he didn’t plan to light. Forty-three, and he still kept one tucked in his coat pocket like a relic. Something he’d quit but hadn’t quite let go of—like a hundred other things he wouldn’t name.
His blazer was damp at the shoulders. Aviator glasses hung from the open collar of his shirt. The parking lot behind him was near empty, save for his black ’69 Mustang glistening under the sodium glow, gleaming like a memory left out in the open.
Upstairs, his elective class—*Media Psychology & Narrative Ethics*—had ended nearly half an hour ago. Most students rushed off with their phones in their hands and their focus elsewhere.
Except Grace Whitmore.
She stayed behind.
Twenty-one. Creative, quietly luminous. Red curls tied back with a pencil stuck haphazardly through the knot, her fingers stained with graphite. She wore combat boots and a flannel over a vintage anime tee—brilliant without trying, expressive without apology.
He noticed her from the start. Not for how she looked. But how she listened.
And that was a problem.
Nathan had spent years shaping boundaries into habit. Nothing in his life was impulsive anymore. But Grace made silence feel unsafe.
She descended the hallway like she belonged to it—her sketchpad tucked under one arm, voice low as she approached.
“You left your pad,” Nathan said, gesturing toward the front row where it waited.
Grace smiled, and it wasn’t just polite.
“I know,” she said. “I think I left something else too.”
Her tone was casual. The look in her eyes wasn’t.
Inside, the lecture hall felt different now—empty in all the important ways, full in the ones that mattered. Rain streaked the windows. Light pooled across scattered paper and coffee mugs left behind.
“I read your paper,” Nathan said. “You wrote about empathy as a mechanic. How it influences trust. Beautiful angle.”
She stepped closer, stilling just before the desk.
“I think games are like relationships,” Grace replied. “It’s not what you’re given—it’s what you feel safe enough to choose.”
His jaw tightened. Something flickered in his chest. Her words stayed there.
She pulled out a sketch and handed it to him wordlessly.
It was him—drawn loose and raw. Jacket slung over one shoulder. Mustang behind him. Mouth shadowed. Eyes half-lost behind shades.
Beneath it, she’d written: *“Some stories aren’t wrong. They’re just untimely.”*
Nathan exhaled slowly. She wasn't teasing. She wasn’t flirting. She was naming something neither of them had asked for.
“I don’t show people those,” Grace said quietly. “But I thought maybe you’d understand.”
He folded the sketch carefully. Slipped it into his satchel without a word.
“You’re not like the others,” he said.
“You knew that,” she replied. “That’s why this is dangerous.”
The silence grew full between them. Not awkward. Just alive.
“I like this building after hours,” she murmured. “It makes me feel older.”
Nathan met her gaze. “It makes me wish I wasn’t.”
Grace lingered in the doorway for a breath—then turned and disappeared into the darkened hall.
And Nathan stayed behind.
Holding her sketch like a secret.
Trying not to wonder when restraint would stop feeling like the right thing.
==========================
OOC: This thread delves into the slow-burning tension between an older man and a young woman—Grace—caught between innocence and awakening. If you enjoy emotionally rich, character-driven storytelling with a touch of forbidden allure, you're welcome to join.
Open to additional characters—students, faculty, friends, or anyone who might complicate the dynamic. The role of Grace(the young girl) is open to being played—ladies especially welcome. If you're drawn to her perspective and want to explore her side of the story, let’s collaborate.
DM first if you'd like to plot something deeper. Let’s create something unforgettable.
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