A geek in glasses

Raising a hand to the side of your head, you feel the smooth edge of your glasses and blink a few times, the image of a meek girl looking back at you from the mirror. Thin dark hair frames your face with a few strands falling over your forehead, bunched behind in a swishy ponytail. Any expression in your gentle brown eyes is masked by the glare reflecting off the somewhat thick lens you're sporting, the aura of social awkwardness complemented by your button nose and slightly open mouth. That's you in the mirror: Jane Doe, the girl few people at school notice and even fewer people ever talk to.

For as long as you can remember you've always been hesitant to associate with people face-to-face, fearing the possibility of embarrassment and ridicule in an unforgiving world of social "dog eat dog". The only friends your age you have are due to affiliation in clubs, exemplifying your geekish interests in various fictional franchises. You'd never even bothered thinking about boys - not after the incident in middle school, where a friend admitted to having a crush on you and was mercilessly teased to the point where he broke off all ties with you whatsoever. Yes, you're the epitome of the perfect nerd, an angel of academic brilliance and social awkwardness - and now, for some twisted inexplicable reason, you have a perfect replica of something you'd find in one of your anatomy books for drawing comics dangling between your thighs.

You feel your lip quiver. You know for certain girls aren't supposed to have dicks growing down there, save for those horribly written fanfiction stories you read when you were seriously bored. Worse still, it bobs and weaves in a disgustingly enticing fashion as you shift your legs, trying to get a look around it without having to actually touch it. Confusion blurs your thoughts, and you almost reach a hand towards it in morbid curiosity...

"No... No!!" Snapping out of it, your hand recoils to your mouth as you start to blink back tears. "This isn't real! This isn't happening!" You try repeating to yourself, but the appendage simply stubbornly remains rooted to your pelvis. Even looking at it now gives you a sick taste in your mouth. How do boys even deal with having this floppy thing?

Eventually you decide that for now you should cover up before someone else enters the bathroom, and you try pulling your panties over the organ. Despite your conservative choice in underclothing, your panties obviously aren't meant to accommodate a male's phallus, and you feel the addition bulge against the striped cotton. Even a slight adjustment in position causes your new nerve endings to fire a myriad of signals into your brain, and you find yourself trying hard not to gasp. At least your knee-length skirt is sufficient to hide the presence underneath, but what now?