Through the Door

"Look at you," Jason said, his voice low and amused, water still dripping from his hair onto the carpet. He stood there in the middle of our bedroom, shirt clinging to his chest, staring at Jenni like she was the only thing in the room, ignoring me. "Soaked right through."

Jenni looked down at herself, at the thin sundress turned translucent and plastered to her skin, and let out a shaky little laugh. "It's freezing."

"Poor thing." Jason stepped closer. His hands found the hem of her dress, and he said it simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world: "Here. Let me help you."

Jenni didn't hesitate. She lifted her arms straight up, a child waiting to be undressed, and Jason peeled the wet cotton over her head in one slow, deliberate motion. It slid up her ribs, over her breasts, past her shoulders, and then she was standing in front of him in nothing but the warm glow of our desk lamp, her skin flushed, her hair a dark tangle of wet strands clinging to her neck.

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. My backpack was still on my shoulder, and my shoes were still squelching, and all I could do was stand there and watch.

She was naked. Fully naked.

Jenni — and now that she's standing there in front of me, out of the rain and out of excuses, there's no hiding behind towels or backpacks or cold-water lies anymore. This is the body I'd been glimpsing all day and only half-daring to look at.

Her breasts are small and round and high, the kind that sit up on their own without a bra, defying gravity the way only young, firm tissue can. Pale pink nipples, slightly puffy, set just wide enough on her chest that they catch the lamplight from either side.

Her stomach is the part that undoes me. Flat as a board and faintly rippled.

And then the hips — flaring gently, giving her that long, elegant curve, the kind that walks like a runway, leading to that swollen mound.

A neat, small patch of pubic hair, trimmed into a small tidy triangle, sits low on her flat belly.

Today, for the first time, she'd let someone see what the swimwear had been hiding.

This is the body I'd been chasing for five months. And tonight, for the first time, it isn't mine.

Her nipples were hard little points, pebbled from the cold rain, standing out tight and pink against the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, every fine hair standing up. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, and she was looking at Jason with those wide blue eyes, her lips parted, waiting.

"You're shivering," Jason observed. He reached out and dragged one warm palm slowly down the outside of her arm, over her shoulder, down her ribs, leaving a trail of heat on her cold skin. "Poor you. Are you cold, Jenni?"

She nodded, small and wordless.

"Then let me warm you up."

And he bent his head and took her right nipple into his mouth.

Jenni's whole body jolted. Her back curved, pushing her chest forward into him, and a long, broken moan escaped her throat—the kind of sound you make before you've decided to make it. Her hand came up on instinct and grabbed the back of his head, fingers threading into his wet hair, pulling him harder against her breast.

Jason sucked. He sucked like a man who'd been waiting all day, sealing his lips around the tight pink bud and pulling, his tongue flat against it, then flicking, then sucking again. Jenni whimpered, and her knees nearly buckled, and she clutched at his hair and his shoulder, anything to stay upright.

Then he moved to the other one. Same treatment—mouth wide, lips sealing, tongue working that hard little peak, his cheeks hollowing as he drew on her. Jenni's head tipped back, her mouth open, her moans echoing softly off the walls of our little bedroom.

I was frozen. Absolutely dumbfounded. My roommate was sucking my crush's nipples, right there in front of me, in the room where I slept every night, and I could not form a single word.

"Jason," she breathed. Just his name. Nothing else. Like it was the only word she had left.

He straightened up, grinning down at her, and her nipples glistened wetly in the lamplight. Then, without warning, he crouched, hooked one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and stood up with her lifted clean off the floor.

Jenni squealed—a bright, delighted little sound—her arms flying around his neck, her legs dangling.

"Let me save you," he declared, deadpan, as if he were carrying her from a burning building. "Get you warmed up."

She loved it. God, she loved it. You could see it in her face—the way she clung to him, the way she looked up at his jaw, the way she bit her lip to stop herself smiling. His strong, trained arms held her as easily as a duffel bag, and her slender naked body pressed against his wet shirt, and she nuzzled into the crook of his neck like it was where she belonged.

And then the bathroom door swung shut behind them.

The last thing I saw was her bare feet, her toes pointing down, and then it clicked closed and I was alone in the bedroom, dripping onto the carpet, humiliated and hard and utterly lost.

…

I stood there for a full ten seconds. Then the shower hissed on, and something cracked inside me, and I found myself creeping towards the door on my toes.

I pressed my ear flat against the wood.

The water ran. Steam began to seep out from under the gap. I heard muffled movement, the squeak of the shower curtain, and then Jason's voice, low and easy, carrying through the door:

"There. Now you're all dirty anyway, filthily, girl."

And Jenni giggled. Not her normal giggle—something lower, throatier, an erotic little giggle that I'd never heard before, that belonged to a version of her I apparently didn't know existed.

Then she moaned.

It was soft at first, just a breath of sound, but it went straight through my chest. My hand flattened against the door. What was happening in there? What was he doing to her? I wanted to open it. I needed to open it. But something in me was afraid—afraid of what I'd see, afraid that seeing it would make it real and final and terrible.

I stayed pressed to the door and listened.

The water kept falling, but under it, over it, through it, came a rhythm. A soft, wet, steady sound. Shlick. Shlick. Shlick. Fingers. He was touching her, the same way he'd touched her in the car, but now under the water, now with nothing between him and her skin.

"Oh," Jenni gasped. "Oh—right there. Oh, yes."

The sound quickened. Her voice climbed. She was leaning against the tile; I could hear the little slaps of her back or her palms against the wall, and then—her breathing broke apart into short, sharp cries, each one timed to the rhythm of his hand.

"I'm—" she choked. " Jason—"

She cried his name.

Jason.

And then came the sound of a girl coming undone—a rising, fractured cry that peaked and broke and tumbled down into soft, shivering little aftershocks. My eyes closed on their own. She'd just had her first orgasm in our bathroom, at the hands of my roommate, while I stood outside with my ear on the door like a servant.

I didn't know it yet, but that was only the beginning.

The water stopped. The shower curtain slid. And then, in the sudden quiet, I heard it.

A wet, fleshy sound. Slow at first. Then the unmistakable slap of skin meeting skin.

He was fucking her.

Right there, on the tile, wet and slippery and standing, because I could hear the little squelch and the slap and the rhythm of it, that deep, driving slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap that grew faster and more confident with every stroke. And over it, Jenni's voice, rising again, but different this time—deeper, more surrendered, each slap pushing a fresh breathy cry out of her.

"Oh—oh—*oh*—"

The rhythm was relentless. Faster. Harder. The slap echoed off the bathroom walls and out under the door to me. I could picture it perfectly: her pressed against the wall, both hands braced, up on her toes, her cheek against the cool tile, Jason behind her with his huge body driving into her slender frame, that massive cock she'd marvelled at all day finally—

Jenni cried out again. A deep, satisfied, guttural cry that seemed to come from somewhere far down inside her, and I knew—she was coming again. Just now. On his cock. Second time.

"So good," she panted, her voice dreamy and wrecked. "You're my first—my very first—I didn't know it could be so—oh—oh—"

She came again. Mid-sentence. The sentence itself dissolved into a long, low moan that tapered off into little helpless whimpers, and I heard Jason groan softly with her, and the slapping went on, and on, like he had no intention of stopping.

Then her voice changed. Took on a small, worried, breathless edge:

"Just—just be careful."

He didn't slow down. "Don't you like it?" he teased, still driving into her.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Ah—oh—keep doing that—keep—"

He sped up. The slaps doubled. The bathroom filled with it, and Jenni's cries turned into one continuous, rising wail, and above it, somehow casual, almost smug, Jason asked:

"Shall I pull out?"

He knew the answer. He already knew. She was in no state to let him leave.

"Oh no," she gasped, "no—keep fucking me—oh—oh—*oh*—"

She came again. Third time. A screaming, shattering orgasm that I heard her whole body put into her, her voice cracking in the middle of it, and then—just as she was still trembling, still squeezing around him, still crying out—Jason let go.

I heard him grunt, low and deep. I heard him slow. And I heard Jenni, mid-orgasm, mid-tremor, let out a long, soft, melting moan as it happened—as he pumped into her, slow and full, again and again, spilling inside her, filling her unprotected womb while she came one more time around his cock, her moan going soft and soppy and satisfied, like honey poured out.

My eyes were hot. And I realised, standing there in the dark hallway with my ear against the door, that there were tears in them.

Because it wasn't just sex, I'd heard. It was a girl becoming someone's. It was my girl, the one I'd chased for months, losing her virginity—her very first—against our bathroom wall to a man who'd done it all in a single day while I listened.

…

The noise stopped.

The water was off. The slaps were done. The moans had faded to nothing. And in their place came only small sounds—the drip of the shower, the shift of wet feet on tile, a soft, breathless laugh from Jenni, and Jason's low murmur that I couldn't quite make out.

And then silence. Real silence. The kind that sat in the hallway with me like a third person.

I stood there, still dripping, still dressed, my backpack still on my shoulder, and felt deeply, deeply sad.

To be continued.