Airi was studying, for a change, waiting out the sweltering tropical heat inside the air-conditioned student lounge. There were other students in there, their heads together as they reviewed class material, the only sound besides their muted discussion the dull roar of the air conditioning unit in the ceiling as it kicked on again. The chilled air washed over Airi, the sensation of her nipples pulling tight and hard against the thin, body-hugging fabric of her tank top causing a twinge in her further down, which she studiously ignored as she focused on her textbook.

It wasn't really helping; the textbook was for her Japanese Culture class, which, since she was taking a minor in Japanese, was required. To her dismay, the class was very narrow in its focus on that country's culture, and would have been more accurately titled The Development of Tentacle Hentai Art 101. Studying as a distraction from internal phantoms really didn't work when the subject material caused flashbacks, she reflected, staring at one particularly graphic picture. Shrugging it away, trying to banish the image of the woman impaled on several hefty tentacles and screaming in either agony or ecstasy, Airi focused on reading the story that accompanied it, a lurid tale uncomfortably close to her own experiences. She wouldn't have bothered if it weren't for the proclamation that there would be a quiz on that section, and she mentally cursed at her teacher for assigning it.

She had no hope of her family stepping in on her behalf, not after they'd put her in this hellish place, so her only hope of escape as far as she could tell was graduating. Preferably early. Airi sighed at the thought and refocused on the book, shifting uncomfortably before giving in; she glanced over her shoulder at the other girls in the room, made sure her angle hid what she was doing, and continued her reading, one hand sliding down into her tiny shorts to toy with her erect clitoris as she studied.

When she turned the page, there would be a meticulously folded note, and on the front, would be a crudely drawn image, what looked to be raccoon eyes with big goofy clown lips, though black with ink, complete with a big round nose...there was something off-putting about it, and if she so chose to unfold the folded paper thing, it would turn, into a poem. The handwriting, like the drawing, was rather crude, but understood easily enough, one supposed:

Quote:

Pogo, Pogo,
it makes me so sad.
you only tried to bring smiles,
with the fun times that you had.

Pogo, Pogo,
i hope everyone can see,
that what you did, was all a joke,
you're a great clown to me!

Pogo, Pogo,
they made you go to sleep,
but you were such, a swell fun guy!
so many secrets did you keep!

Pogo, Pogo,
you're a great clown to me.
soon people, will understand,
that you're a clown just like me.

The clown drawing would be on the back, and as she read, presumably the wind had picked up outside, as a tree branch was tapping every so often against the upper window, the wall somewhat facing her. At least, it looked exactly like a tree branch...

(nevermind on writing a response.)