The roommate [M/F]

Until I found my own place, I spent the first month in the new city renting a bedroom in a friend of a friend’s flat. The friend of a friend, who has long since been promoted to friend, is Czech. His partner lives in Prague. They typically visit each other every few weeks: usually, he makes the trip there. Though I have seen her a couple of times in the ensuing months, I never met her during the brief period that we lived together.

Because I was staying with a man who was at the time only a slight acquaintance, I didn’t bring lovers home with me. My partners hosted the various one night stands as I discovered my way around a new city. I did masturbate at the apartment, on occasion with porn on the laptop for inspiration, or while chatting with my ex-boyfriend in California over Skype. Our two bedrooms were adjacent. The doors and walls didn’t afford much privacy. I know he heard me because I heard him. Sometimes when I started playing with my pussy at night, he would jerk off, too. The collection of circumstances amused me.

He came home early on a Saturday afternoon and caught me on the sofa. I covered up in the short terry cloth bathrobe but the conspicuous dildo on the coffee table was a dead giveaway for what I had been doing.

Both of us apologized.

It had at the time been four weeks since he had seen his girlfriend. He possessed a pair of blue balls that were turning indigo.

I excused myself to the bedroom and returned decently dressed, bundled myself in a jacket, and made a hurried excuse to leave for the day. I went to a café where I extinguished embarrassment in work and had kebabs for dinner. The guy I was most interested in was busy that evening, and the other casuals weren’t compelling enough to justify a repeat engagement. I didn’t feel like arranging a new encounter via the internet or trying to pull a random stranger at a pub for an evening’s entertainment. I made it back to the apartment around 10 pm. He was already shut in his bedroom.

I took a hot shower and stretched nude over my unmade bed. Hands squeezed my breasts. They lowered to my cunt, which was dripping wet and desperate for release. I peeled the lips open, placed two digits within, driving them in and out rapidly, like a piston. I brought my knees up, thighs together, and squeezed my hand. I tugged the hair. The bedsprings squeaked. Eyes screwed tightly shut, I keened and felt the moisture dripping from my vulva. I licked my fingers to taste myself. In the stillness, the sound from next door carried. He was moaning also.

Clad in the too small bathrobe again, I knocked on his door. The door opened a crack. He peeked through the opening. He wore a forest green dressing gown. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but maybe we could help each other out,” I offered. Bemusement etched on his visage. Suddenly regretting my words, my face heated in a blush. I smelled my arousal.

He sighed.

Over a newly opened bottle of Riesling we temporized in the kitchen that it would be ok if neither of us touched the other. We sat on opposite sides of the couch. I turned my body toward him and, planting one foot on the ground and the other on the couch, spread to access my cunt. The sash undone, the bathrobe flashed open at the top to show my breasts. I resumed where I had left off earlier in the day and employed the dildo. Right hand holding the base, I fucked myself swiftly and hard, without any effort at delay or discretion. My left hand handled my tits roughly. Naked, he sunk into the cushions. Hand wrapped about the thick erection, squeezing, shucking, he stared at me, eyes focused at the joining of my legs, concentrating on the ersatz cock and the fact of my first orgasm. I had no reason to be quiet and therefore was not. I could come multiply and did. I got off on the noises he made. Watching him masturbate turned me on. I liked the shape of his penis. I liked the size of his scrotum. I liked that he didn’t shoot at once. I hastened the climax with lascivious words. (Evidently, it is sexy for a man to hear a woman begging for his finish.) Seeing the semen streak in white ribbons onto his hairy chest and belly sent my vagina to convulsions. The last dregs of ejaculate spilling onto his knuckles prompted the aftershocks. He wiped himself with tissues before I could enunciate my impossible desire to clean him. I pondered blowjobs and kept going. He dropped to the ground for a better look. The hard-on renewed. He stroked it inches from me. I remembered that I shouldn’t touch.

We repeated three or four times during the remainder of my stay. Aware of the body heat behind me and the movement of his hand, I sometimes pillowed my head against his thigh while I worked my pussy with clever fingers. I talked to him, described the sensations I was experiencing, related the adventure of my last fuck. I did what he asked of me. It happened that we shared several kinks.

Months later, every so often, most recently yesterday, we get together for dinners that he prepares, drink wine, and masturbate in each other’s company. Usually, I crash in my old bedroom afterwards. He still hasn’t touched me sexually — not the pussy, not the breasts, not so much as a kiss on the mouth. I haven’t held his cock, haven’t experienced its weight or that of the laden balls, haven’t teased the foreskin down, haven’t mouthed the glans, haven’t descended the vein with kisses and ascended again to the top, haven’t sucked the testicles, haven’t licked the taint or asshole, haven’t slobbered over the prick or let it slowly slip past my lips, haven’t collapsed my cheeks or flicked my tongue from side to side below the shaft while I fellated, haven’t bobbed my head happily, haven’t puckered or pouted around an immense mouthful, haven’t spun my face, haven’t attempted to deepthroat, haven’t felt fingers combing through my hair or applying pressure on the scalp, haven’t scratched his hairy thighs or wafted my tongue through the jungle of his pubis, haven’t tasted his sweat, haven’t observed his groin approach and recede from up close, haven’t made eye contact from down on my knees, haven’t tested my gag reflex, haven’t shuttered my eyes and tipped my head back and jaws hanging open, aimed his explosive come shot right at me. And I definitely haven’t rubbed my labia along the bottom of the shaft to coat him with my viscous juices or fitted him inside and compressed the hardness with the muscles of my vagina or bounced myself over him. Nor has he imposed himself on top of me, thrusting with his hips, or ripped my clothes from my body and taken me against the door of the apartment or on the carpet in the foyer or on the leather sofa or in bed while I rutted on all fours. I haven’t held my anus open for him or been properly devoured. I haven’t cradled his head while he nursed at my nipples or shrieked as he fisted me. I haven’t creamed because of the agency of his exuberant penis. He knows I would do any of this just as soon as he makes the request. Teasing in diaphanous lingerie, exhibiting as I undressed, I have patiently explained these realities to him often enough. Cognizant that he would never proceed beyond our current equilibrium, diddling my clit, I expound on fantasies of *us*, what I want to do with him and what I want him to do to me. Our ritual now is that I swallow his come from the wine glass.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/497lcl/the_roommate_mf