The head dishwasher gave me head. [MF]

In college, around 25 years ago, I lived in a private women’s dormitory. Our meals were prepared by professional kitchen staff, but the waiters and dishwashers were young men who were also students at the university. These young men did their work at the dorm in exchange for three meals a day and parking at the dorm. All men were forbidden in the private living spaces of this dorm, and these waiters and dishwashers were the only men tolerated on the premises, and only in the dining hall.

Tracy was a dishwasher–evidently the head dishwasher–and we got to know each other during the spring semester. I had been on a few dates with him and he was very courteous and kind. Our relationship escalated when he invited me to his apartment for dinner. We sat next to each other on the couch after the meal and I threw myself on him in a fit of furious kissing. We enjoyed that simple pleasure and said goodnight.

This story isn’t about that encounter, but instead describes what happened the next time we met.

Summer session had started and the dorm had only a handful of residents, including me. I had a room to myself on the top floor overlooking the great lawn. Imagine a classic neo-Georgian brick and columns structure, built in the 1920s, complete with dormer windows and shutters, surrounded by oak trees.

Despite my conservative upbringing, I had a healthy appetite for sex. Up to this point, sex meant masturbation by myself. I wanted more. I wanted help. I wanted Tracy to help me.

I met him in the dining room on a Friday night as he was finishing up washing the dishes. It was near 8PM and the dorm was dark and quiet. Most of the women were out on the town, or out of town.

He met me at the front lobby as I requested. Looking both ways, I took his hand and quickly led him upstairs. His hand tensed in mine a bit, as if to protest this violation of the dorm’s rules, but he said nothing and followed me up the stairs. We entered my room, closed the door, and kicked off our shoes.

He was silent but smiling. With a finger over my lips I signified the need for him to keep quiet.

Some amber Christmas lights cast a light glow over the huge, spartan room. A twin bed was the only furniture. A large window filled the wall opposite the door. A summer storm was rolling in, with lightning flashes increasing in frequency, and little grumbles of thunder threatening the silence. I stood at the window and opened the window sash, and as I felt the chilly storm breeze on my face and chest, I felt Tracy’s hands on my hips, and heat in my buttocks from his nearness.

My hands remained on the opened window sash, my arms elevated. Tracy’s fingers found the hem of my shirt and his hands found their way across my abdomen. His dishwasher hands were a rough contrast to my smooth skin. The heat in my buttocks was met with pressure from his hips pressing into me. I could feel an unmistakable firmness. He parted my hair at the nape of my neck and felt the skin with his lips.

I wanted this badly and responded in the positive with a quietly whispered, “uh-hummm”. He deftly moved his hands up over my bra and somehow swiftly removed my shirt. I reached back to unclasp my bra but somehow he had already done it; the bra surrendered, falling away to the floor.

Thunder and lightning were literal and metaphorical in this unforgettable moment: standing bare breasted at the great open window, the evening storm brewing in intensity, cool air on my skin, and Tracy the head dishwasher standing behind me, his hands skimming so lightly down my shoulders, over my breasts, and onto my hips. Electrifying.

I turned to the bed, leading him by the hand, and lay down before him, smiling and beckoning with my body. He stripped his shirt off. Tracy was a distance runner–lean and hungry looking–and his lithe frame craned over me on the bed. He worked gentle magic with his lips, nose, and eyelashes on my breasts and down to the hem of my shorts. While his hands rested gently on my hips, he unbuttoned my shorts with his mouth and pulled the zipper open with his lips, exposing the top hem of my underwear and the crests of my pelvis. I lay on the bed, my head propped on a pillow, watching this spectacle. The storm raged louder and flashed brighter outside, and we hardly noticed for our own weathermaking on the bed.

Wanting more, I unconsciously raised my hips to allow what remained of my clothes to be pulled away. He slid down only my shorts, and I raised my hips again in consent to removing my underwear, but his hands cupped my buttocks and he brought his nose down to my underwear, the fabric neatly containing my pubic hair, my welcome cushion for his face. I had imagined something like this many times, but never quite like this.

As I gazed silently at his nose on my mound, his eyes met mine and his nose moved ever lower over my underwear, and I felt his hot breath on my thighs, until it mixed with the heat of my vulva, and his nose traced my labia through the fabric, down to my buttocks and back up. I moved my hands down to his and guided him to pull down my underwear, which whispered a happy farewell over my legs as he slid them off.

Willingly exposed, I opened my thighs and watched his gaze fall from my face, across my breasts, over my abdomen, and on to my vulva. Lightning flashes lit my body and a hard rain had commenced. My little mound of hair formed an arrow pointing to my clitoris, and that is where I wanted Tracy.

He moved in closer between my legs, and I postured my hips to invite him in. Though he was poised to consume me, I felt like I was consuming him.

Again Tracy led with his nose, brushing over my clitoris and into the void between my labia. I could feel him breathing me in through his nose, drawing cool air with each breath, and slowly exhaling each breath as if savoring a fragrant flower. I breathed with him, and smelled my familiar aroma, and felt my labia slowly engorge and reach out to him. His tongue started at the bottom of my labia, surprising me with my own sensitivity there, and traced each labia up and down, briefly tracing over my clitoris and making me eager for that special gratification.

While his hands cupped my buttocks, my fingers crawled down to my pubes and gently pulled them up to expose my clitoris in an overt suggestion of want. Tracy obliged with a smile and a tongue tip circumnavigation of my clitoris. I couldn’t help breaking the silence with a warning moan now, “ooohm,” and as my legs came to rest on his back, I drew him into me with a whisper-shouted “uh’huh” and that was the end of my willpower. My desire took over and my breathing left no question that I was getting a proper servicing by the head dishwasher. His saliva and my juices flowed together while his nose and tongue made a rhythm over and around my clitoris and labia, bringing me to an orgasm that was “hurt so good” painful and pleasurable.

I was spent and sank into the bed. Tracy lay down next to me, smelling strongly of my sex, and caressed me. We finally spoke a few words in hushed tones and laughed at our focus: rain was pouring in through the window. We slammed it shut, ran naked together down the empty hallway to the bathroom, had a quick shower, and returned to my room, to spend the night together in my inadequate bed.

To be honest, we slept very little, as we explored each other several times during the night. It was one of those mornings where one has had little sleep, but does not feel tired for all the excitement.

Tracy was the only one I shared this privilege with in college, and this was the first of many memorable times we enjoyed together in the dorm. We have moved on to separate lives, but I could never forget these memories.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ru09hz/the_head_dishwasher_gave_me_head_mf