You’re a college student. You’re fairly introverted, slightly taller than average, have sandy blonde hair and are decent looking. You’ve just started to work out and are seeing some results. You’re two years through a three year degree in the humanities and are quietly proud to have recently finished an essay on Foucault’s The History of Sexuality. (If you haven’t read it, it’s compulsory you go and do so now.)
For the last two years you’ve been living in a share house with a couple: James and Krista. They have been together since high-school and reached a stage in their relationship characterised by complete comfort around each other. They’re terribly public with their displays of affection. You regularly use ear plugs to mute the brazen sounds of sex that echo down the hallway to your room, where, alone amongst crumpled-up, frustrated sheets, you try to sleep. You’re used to it by now of course, but sometimes when the mood strikes you take out your ear plugs and imagine the positions James has Krista contort as he thrusts himself into her wet little… I mean Krista is fairly attractive, but you’ve had too many platonic conversations for their liberation to really get you anywhere.
This neighbourly adultery was, until recently, the sole tangible element of sexuality in your life. Theoretically, (and you Professors will attest to this) you know all about sex, coitus, love-making.
You are, however, a virgin, and this has recently become apparent to you as you’ve begun working out. The female form now excites you in a way you’ve never experienced. The girls of the student gym cause you to grow, but not in the old limp way that the servo’s scantily clad bulging plastic breasted magazine missies would. This is growth born of an animal reality only a few tantalising assertions away; a painful growth that throbs and demands attention not satisfied, like it once was, with spit in the hand and a firm grip. Release thusly won, though having once served, now leaves you irritated and sore. But that enticingly supple curvature – held firm by skin tight polyester, squatting now and flaring out to strong thighs and the dimple of the small of her back – what had before been a bum, was now the very centre of your turgid desire. As a virgin and a decent fellow this development has been, in addition to very arousing, both perplexing and completely outside of your power to act on.
Until last week, when Eleanor moved in. A dancer, you’d ascertained during the formalities of introduction. Whilst showing her around the house you take furtive and morally conflicting glances at her figure. She has the same shape as those girls at the gym.
Early morning and you are in the shower. The water runs hot across you chest, neck and back. It drizzles down your stomach to the base of your cock. You run the water over it’s sensitive varicose flesh and groan. An image of Eleanor in her bikini floats unbidden into your head and your pulse quickens. You know she’s only in the next room, that her soft voluptuous body is radiating heat, creating a cocoon of warmth beneath the single sheet of her bed.
You grip your cock and try placate it with soft massaging strokes. It is bringing small relief when you hear a noise outside the door. A soft knocking?
You stick your head out the shower curtain to listen.
Knocking again. And now, a voice, “Let me in.”
It’s Eleanor’s voice.
The image of Eleanor in bikini transforms into her pressed against the shower glass, stark naked, ploughed from behind by some luckier version of you.
“Let me in, I need to shower before work!” The image evaporates.
“Yeah, righto,” is your feeble reply, “just let me finish up.”
You poor moisturiser into your hand and massage the head of your cock. It’s super sensitive with the thought of Eleanor on the other side of the door. You stroke down your shaft, all the way to the base and then back up again. This feels good – better than it has in a long time. You keep thinking of Eleanor, when –
“No, I need to go. I’m coming in.”
Did you mishear that?
The door opens. A gush of cold air and a shadow the shape of Eleanor on the curtain.
Her voice, “Get out! I won’t be a minute, you can have it back after.”