There’s nothing worse than getting sick at college. Especially when you’re living in a dorm.
Freshman students are the worst. We get way too excited about living away from home for the first time and tend to behave as immaturely as possible.
We also love to make enthusiastic and unnecessary noise at all times of the day or night. Which is fine if you are a fellow participant in the hullabaloo. But when you’re sick and laid up in bed, it’s the last thing you want to hear.
Loud rock music, sudden shrieks of laughter, anaerobic games of chase and frisbee in the hall. It’s like Lord of the Flies out there. And your bedroom back home can seem oddly appealing – even the specter of your dear old Mom, fussing around and taking suffocatingly good care of you.
At least this is how I felt one morning a few years back, laid up sick in my private dorm room, during the first semester of Fresher year at SFU.
To be honest, in this instance it was overindulgence from the night before that was responsible for my “illness.” I was hungover.
I decided to skip my lecture and ask Emily if she wouldn’t mind letting me have a copy of her notes when it was over. She was one of the girls who lived on the floor above and the only person in my block who was taking the same History class.
I went up to her room and knocked on the door to ask. She was oddly delighted to help. Almost too delighted. She lingered in the doorway, beaming at me through her dental braces. It was not cool behavior but it was nice to be reminded she had a little crush on me.
She promised she would take the best notes ever and deliver a copy of them later that day. She even thanked me, absurdly, as she closed the door.
Emily was a nerd. She was also that rare breed of student who actually spends time being studious. She kept her long blonde hair tied back and wore scholarly looking spectacles, while her wardrobe looked like it had been chosen on a shopping trip with her mother.
Like me, she was only 19 and living away from home for the first time, which may explain why she was so shy and serious.
It was around 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I was lying in bed. The History lecture had been over for a couple of hours and although I hadn’t asked Emily to bring her notes at a particular time, I wasn’t surprised when I heard a gentle tap at my door and the announcement she was here.
“Come in,” I called out.
She opened the door, beaming. She was wearing a white, pirate-style blouse with two pens clipped to the inside pocket, and a long, multilayered navy blue skirt that reached the floor. She looked like she was dressed for church followed by a court appearance.
“How are you feeling?” she asked kindly, closing the door behind her.
“So much better thanks!” I replied.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Could you fill the kettle for me?” I pointed to it on the table.
“I can probably manage that,” she said. She took the electric kettle to the sink and filled it with fresh water.
Although our dorm rooms did not have private toilets, they did have a small wash basin in an alcove with a mirror above. This area was typically employed by female students for brushing their teeth and applying make-up; and by male students for urinating in because we were too lazy to walk to the restroom.
Emily placed the kettle back on the stand so that its red light was activated.
“How was the lecture?” I asked.
She grew more at ease and began to tell a not-particularly amusing story involving our cranky History professor and a dispute he’d had with one of the students. I laughed in all the right places.
When she’d finished, I watched her take a clean, red file from her giant backpack and remove three photo-copied sheets of painfully-neat lecture notes. They looked like samples of fine calligraphy
“How neat are these notes?” I laughed, taking them from her. “I should get you to write them for me every time!”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, beaming at me again.
“Well, thank you,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “Would you like to stay and have a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” she said. “But I’ll make it. You rest.”
I quickly remembered one of the only two cups in the room had an intense mold growing inside it. I had been mentally washing it up for weeks (freshman hygiene). I didn’t want Emily to see, so I leapt out from under the bedclothes and intercepted it from the window ledge.
“You’re the guest,” I said, “you can’t make the tea. I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure you feel well enough?”
“I’m really not that bad. It was more a hangover. Sit down and I’ll take care of it.”
I indicated she could sit at the foot-end of my bed and went over to the alcove to wash up the mugs. It took a while to remove the mold from inside the filthy one and there was a heavy silence while I scrubbed away at it. The kettle came to a boil and I busied myself making us both a cup of tea.
Something that had only occurred to me at the moment I leapt out of bed was that I was wearing nothing but a pair of kızılay escort small, white trunks. While I was washing the cups in the sink, I noticed Emily looking up and down at my body. I played ice hockey at the time and was in the best shape of my life. My chest had a few bruises but it was bulging and lean in all the right places.
As I poured the tea, I checked to confirm she was still transfixed – apparently by my torso, or was it my ass? She was grinning while she ogled me; her braced teeth unashamedly shiny and exposed. I felt like a rock star with a starstruck fan in his dressing room.
Her undisguised fixation on my body began to make my loins stir. I looked down at the front of my trunks to make sure nothing indecent was evolving. The outline of my flaccid penis was visible but packed snugly into the skimpy briefs. It provided a thrill to think she might be looking at this too.
I finished making the tea, handed her a cup, and climbed back into bed with mine. We chinked them together and said cheers. I pulled the bedclothes over myself, and thought she might have registered some disappointment.
I can’t recall what we talked about over our cups of tea, but she laughed a lot at the things I said, only a few of which merited laughter. She kept glancing at the outline of my body beneath the bedclothes, then catching herself.
She seemed prettier than I had noticed before, particularly when she was laughing. She had small, sensual lips and iridescent eyes. I loved the almost ceramic-looking paleness of her skin (the little of it I could see), and the stray wisps of butter-blond hair that escaped from a barrette and curled around her neck.
I also enjoyed her warm personality and genuine intellect (which put my own to shame in each case). She was a powerhouse of a human, this weird, attractive nerd. I felt foolish for never having noticed before.
But alongside the realization I had underestimated her, I felt a sinful new desire: I longed to know what her body was like.
I pondered the carefully hidden contours of her figure and wondered what was going on under all the seemingly endless layers of clothes. There were so few glimpses of flesh on display to provide any clue. She had managed to conceal all physical evidence of herself as a woman, let alone a beautiful one. She was like a superhero in their every-day disguise.
When we’d finished the tea, she took the cups to the basin and said she had to be going. She was taking clothes that needed washing to the laundry block and asked if I wanted her to take any of mine at the same time. I was about to decline when she saw the bag full of dirty clothes in the corner of my room.
“I’ll do those for you,” she said.
She was eager to be kind, so I didn’t argue: “Thanks. Take some of the coins from beside the TV.”
“Anything else that needs washing?” she asked, as she gathered up the bag of clothes, and picked up her backpack to leave.
At that moment I found myself doing something provocative.
“There is one other thing,” I said, “hang on…”
I removed the flimsy trunks I was wearing beneath the covers and produced them with an outstretched arm, indicating for her to open up the laundry bag and let me throw them in.
The gesture was intended as a harmless piece of flirting. I quite fancied Emily by now, and I knew she fancied me, but I doubted anything was going to happen. Although I did feel a buzz that I had made myself naked beneath the covers while she was in the room. A similar thrill seemed to occur to her, because she suddenly seemed reluctant to depart.
“Have you taken of all your clothes?” she asked, grinning.
“Are you going to ask me to prove it?” I said.
She suddenly froze. Like a rabbit with a car hurtling towards it. She let the laundry bag drop sharply at her feet. As she did so, her backpack slipped down her arm and she let this drop to the floor too.
“Go on then!” she said.
Holy Crap! I thought. Is this on?
I pulled the bedclothes aside to reveal the merest glimpse of my naked flank, before covering up again. It was proof enough, if proof were the point.
“I still don’t believe you,” she said.
Next I revealed a portion of my lower abdomen and a whole leg. I had to hold my bits out the way to prevent them from making a cameo appearance.
“Come on,” I said, playing the game, “you must believe me by now!”
“I need more proof,” she said.
An exhibitionist thrill shot through me.
I pulled the covers back in one swoop and revealed everything to her. My penis was thick but flaccid, curled against my leg like a fat caterpillar.
She let out a shriek. Not one of fear or alarm, but one of the l-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that variety.
I could have made some joke that she had proof and covered up. But I had no desire now to cover myself up. Quite the contrary. In fact, I was beginning to grow an erection. And its appearance prompted the next exchange:
“Is it getting bigger?” she asked.
It wasn’t a statement of naivety at the etlik escort transitional potential of the male anatomy but another question along the lines of “have you taken off all your clothes?”
“It’s getting really big,” I replied, which sounded cheap and I regretted it immediately. But she didn’t appear to be bothered. And it was after all very true. Sticking up from me now was one of the largest erections I had ever accomplished. It looked obscene, even to me, and I’d been staring at it for years.
“I’ve never seen one that big!” Emily said with awe. But then added: “I mean, I’ve never seen one at all’ (which ruined it). “Not like that anyway. Why is it so hard?”
“Because I’m turned on,” I said.
“By What?” she asked, perplexed.
She guffawed with dismissal at the explanation, but on reflection, seemed thrilled.
“But I’m not doing anything,” she said innocently.
I lifted up my cock and made it point at the ceiling to give her a better view. She grinned like a Cheshire cat (with dental irregularities). I began to stroke it up and down while she watched. She continued to smile but now her mouth fell open.
Her captivation made me feel more emboldened, and soon I was masturbating myself in earnest; giving her as much of a performance as I could. I harvested saliva from my throat and spat it onto the head of my glans, using it to lubricate my shaft so that it was glistening and slick.
I also began to moan. The moans were demonstrative in the sense that I wouldn’t have made them on my own. But they represented genuine feelings. In fact, I was more turned on than I could remember, jerking off for my thunderstruck guest.
After what seemed like an age of her watching, she finally conjured up some words: “Is it going to…? Are you going to…?” she said, “you know?”
“Am I going to blow?” I asked.
She nodded eagerly.
“Would you like me to?”
She nodded eagerly again.
“Have you seen one go off before?’ I asked, milking the situation now for all it was worth.
She shook her head.
“Then come, sit down. I’ll show you.”
It took her a moment to process the invite.
“Don’t be shy,” I said, patting the mattress.
She crossed the few feet to my bed at a tortoise-pace, and perched awkwardly on the end. I scooched my legs up to offer her more room. She was barely an arm’s reach now from my cock.
“Would you like to have a go?” I asked, taking my hand off it for a moment.
It was clear she did, but she shook her head. “I’ll just watch,” she said.
She wasn’t sure at all. But nodded as if she were.
It was rather sweet. She had regressed into wallflower-mode. I felt bad, like I was introducing her to a devil. Which I guess I was. But I also felt incredibly aroused.
If she really did just want to watch, I thought, I need to give her a better show than this. So I got out of bed and stood in front of her, my throbbing cock just a few inches from her face. She studied it with fascination. I could imagine her taking neat calligraphic notes about it later.
I also wondered if she felt any sexual desire of her own. It was difficult to read any emotion on her face except exhilaration.
“Are you sure you don’t want to touch it?” I asked again, my breath growing heavier.
“Ok,’ she said this time. Then changed her mind. Then decided yes again.
It was like trying to convince her to hold a tarantula.
Finally she dared reach out one of her long, pirate-sleeves and made a move to touch it. She didn’t hold it at first. But bounced it in the air, like she was testing its gravitational pull. Then she recoiled in fits of giggles.
“Don’t be scared,” I tried to say reassuringly, and indicated she should try again.
This time she collected it from the underside like the handle of a jump rope, and weighed it in her palm.
“It’s like steel!” she said, squeezing it gently.
I collected her hand and taught it how to properly hold my cock. We stroked it together until I trusted she’d got the swing of it, then I let my own hand retire. And she jerked me off by herself, without the training wheels.
She was getting more into it, and so was I.
“Is it going to pour out on the floor?” she asked, studying the tip with a scrupulous eye.
“I don’t think so…” I said. I was starting to feel a pressure rising in my balls.
“When’s it going to go off?”
“Soon,” I said, my voice breaking into falsetto.
It had been several days since I last ejaculated but I had no idea the extent of what was about to happen, or I would have warned her in advance.
“When?” she demanded impatiently.
The dam broke and my cock launched a cascade of hot cum into her startled face. The realization had only dawned on her when an even bigger deluge hit her again, this time smothering the lenses of her spectacles, and torpedoing into her hair. A third jet shot straight up her nose, and when she opened her jaw to try and discharge it, two more great bolts demetevler escort filled the bowl of her mouth. I was cumming and cumming, like I rarely had in my life, spray-painting the poor girl’s face.
I shot the last few glorious spurts over her teeth, where they puddled in the metal stars of her braces. And when her sperm-bath was over, she sat there, motionless; custard-covered face dripping audibly down onto her blouse; still beaming. It looked like three men had bukkaked her.
I almost collapsed from the intensity of the orgasm. I grabbed a nearby towel and began to gently wipe the white glop from her face.
“Oh Emily, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“That was wild!” she said, completely thrilled, cum glazing the windshields of her spectacles.
She let me take them off and wipe them clean. But then, surprising myself, I leaned in and removed a daub of cum from her cheek with my tongue. She squealed with delight at the sensation, or perhaps the idea. And proceeded to let me lick the rest of my sperm from her face, until it was clean – intensely shiny, but clean. It was weird and erotic, even more so considering we hadn’t kissed.
The taste of my cum on her skin was so vivifying that my cock grew solid again as if I hadn’t just emptied the well of my balls over her face.
I tried to kiss her. And to be fair, I think she tried to kiss me back, but she was so unsure of her own contribution that she basically just surrendered her open mouth and allowed me to probe it.
I was dying to see her body and wondered if she’d be resistant to an attempt to release it. She wore such colonial-era fashion that I hadn’t seen her arms, wrists or even her ankles for that matter.
I fumbled with the buttons of her cum-blotched pirate shirt, until she came to my assistance. I removed it, for which she helpfully outstretched her arms. There were still a few more safety barriers within the fortress – another slip of some kind, a longline bra… but finally, when all the reams of fabric were out the way, her pale little tits came into view, their small pink nipples like gumdrops.
They looked like newly made breasts that had just been taken out of a box for the first time. I cupped each one in my palms gently, before pawing at them like a man possessed.
She permitted me to remove each of her shoes and peel down her knee length socks. But it was less easy to free her from the rest of her disguise.
“Can I take off your skirt?” I asked, trying to find an entrance-point to the voluminous garment. It was like she was wrapped in a pair of living room curtains.
She nodded yes, but failed to get the hint that I needed assistance.
“I mean, how do I get it off?” I asked, desperate to find somewhere to begin unravelling her.
She came to my rescue and unclasped the waistband. But it proved harder to access her nether regions than it had been to find her tits. Undressing her was like an excavation; an archeological dig. After endless layers of discarded fabric, her polished thighs finally came into view. Her thin, bird-like legs looked like they’d been sculpted from white porcelain.
She wore a pair of knickers so tight that they left a tattooed indentation of themselves around her. By the time these too had been slipped down and unhooked from her elegant ankles, she was finally nude. I felt exhausted.
If her costume had been intended as a deterrent, it had almost worked. But the reward of her naked body was more than I could have wished for. I had to step back to take it all in.
“Oh Emily,” I said. “You are glorious!”
She inspected herself as if to verify the compliment.
I reclined her against the wall, spread her legs as widely as I could, and smoothed the flesh of her narrow thighs. It was strange how enthusiastically submissive she was and yet entirely unprepared to involve any of her own ideas – or even her limbs; her arms remained at her sides, like she was a singing in a chorale. But she allowed me to maneuver her.
It didn’t matter anyway because I had found my prize: the perfectly pink flower of her cunt, its petals glistening with dew; cherry-red clit peeking out from its hood. I beamed at it the same way she’d been beaming at me all afternoon.
“You have a beautiful cunt,” I told her and beckoned my forefinger through the damp petals of its lips.
She began a gasp of pleasure, but decided to silence it.
A white-tinged syrup oozed from her slit. I gathered some on my fingertip and made sure she watched me suck it into my mouth. It tasted like salt and molasses.
“Ew,” she shrieked.. “Don’t eat it!”
“It’s delicious,” I told her and went back for another two-fingersful. “You don’t have a clue how edible you are.”
I slid the same slick finger inside her until it reached the knuckle. She let out another sigh. This one extended to two syllables. It was tempting to finger fuck her. But I had grander plans for the newly-unwrapped gift of her body. Especially now I had tasted the ambrosia of her tight little cunt.
I licked the entrance to her slit and feasted on her delicious hole. She made whimpering sounds and soon her pelvis began to shudder with the unmistakeable contractions of an orgasm. She was frozen in bliss, mumbling wordless-words, like she was babbling in tongues.