Nobody else would ever have wanted my college dorm room. There was a blue-grey stain in the corner of the ceiling that nobody could ever explain. If the windows weren’t left open, come rain or shine, then an odd smell of rotting onions would drift in and take root. And by some quirk of the design, it was the smallest in the block. It was so small, in fact, that if I stood in the centre with my arms outstretched, and waved my cheerleader pompoms, they would brush against the walls.

But for all its failures, I never once asked to change rooms.

Katy, my best friend, thought I was just shy. “I’ll ask for you,” she would say. “Come on, Imogen, they can’t expect you to stay there.”

But I just shook my head. “It’s fine, I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it.”

You see, that dorm room had one redeeming feature. Laying on my bed in the evening, when the sun was just going down, and if the clouds didn’t get in the way, the light would somehow reflect miraculously, from the windows or the walls, or even perhaps from the big lake where Alice Wilson fucked Terry Parkes and got caught by the grounds keeper. But however it happened, the light bounced and jumped and carried to my window a full view into Lew Hatcher’s room, three floors above mine.

Sometimes he wasn’t there. Sometimes he would just be sitting, gazing out of his window. But occasionally, if I was lucky, I would see him showering, the door to his bathroom wide open.

On those occasions I would slip off my skirt as I watched jets of water steaming and spluttering against his skin. I would wriggle out of my panties and discard them on the floor while I watched him lather and turn, rubbing soap into his thick, dark chest hair. I would run my fingers down through my pubic hair, feeling its coarseness against my palm, and I would circle a fingertip around my soft pussy lips as I marvelled at the way his penis swung, the way the skin moved and stretched when he massaged it with soap.

As I pleasured myself, letting my fingers flick against my clitoris or dip inside my vagina, I would buck and tremble against the bed. My auburn hair would fall across my eyes, damp with sweat, sticking to my skin, and I would brush it aside so that the view wasn’t obscured. I watched Lew’s solid pectoral muscles flex and tense, his abs grind against each other as he leaned down to wash his thighs. I would watch him turn and water would slide down his back, into the crevice of his ass, and I would moan his name, struggling for breath.

And then, as I orgasmed and mewled into my pillow, muffling the sound, the vision would disappear, and all that was visible outside my window was concrete and the tops of trees.

I went back there once, visiting a lecturer friend who was resident in the same dorm block. I asked to see my old room, but she shook her head, apologised. Nobody had wanted it after I vacated, apparently. It was too small. They couldn’t get rid of the nasty stain. There was a smell of rotting onions. So the college turned it into a store room, blocked up the windows.

With a wistful shrug and a light smile, I assured her that it didn’t matter. In some ways it’s better like this. I experienced magic that no longer exists. And that makes me special.

Written for Masturbation Monday Week 99. If you’re not already aware of Mastubation Monday, hosted by the fabulous Kayla Lords, then you’re missing out. Free erotic fiction every week!


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