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Remembering the near disaster that we had last spring, Lisa and I
worked out in advance what we were planning to do with our summers.
We had long since decided not to be ‘possessive’ about each other
during times when circumstances dictated that we be apart.

Lisa had a co-op research job waiting for her down south, and I was
going home to work for a friend of my father’s, whose company needed
someone with mechanical drawing skills. So we knew, as April came
around, that we wouldn’t have much longer together. We were
determined to make the most of it.

It wasn’t going to be quite what we expected, though.

+++

I came in from the rain looking like a wet bear. I’m a medium sized
guy, 5’11” and about 180lbs, but what really made the image work was
my shaggy brown hair and the beard that hadn’t quite grown in yet.
The beard had been a major source of friction between us in more ways
than one, but Lisa was being pretty good humored about it so far.

I went back to my room, stripped to the waist, and towelled myself
dry. When it hangs straight, my hair goes right down to my shoulder
blades. That’s never an issue, though, because my hair could no more
hang straight than I could flap my arms and fly. Straight or rumpled,
though, it holds a lot of water.

A few minutes later, feeling much drier, but now looking like a
bare-chested reject caveman, I strolled down the hallway to the
washroom, to get combed and presentable again.

In the hallway was Julie Brauer. She was dating Greg (Woody) Woods,
the guy who lived across the hall from me. She went to an all-women’s
college about 20 miles away, and she often stayed with him on weekends.
She was wearing a short robe, and walking towards the bathroom just
ahead of me. She had long brown hair and slender, pretty legs. I
smiled as I strolled behind her. What a sight.

The bathroom was shaped like a hallway. On the left, there was a
giant mirror, covering the wall from hip level up to a height of
about 7 feet. It had a row of sinks in front of it, and the shower
stalls were recessed in the opposite wall. Julie went into one of
the shower stalls, and pulled the plastic curtain closed.

Nonchalantly, I selected the sink almost directly opposite her
shower stall, so I watch the mirror for any interesting action. I
didn’t know why I did stuff like that. If she were to throw the
curtain open, and expose her entire naked body, I’d probably hide
my eyes, and scream for her to cover herself. But from some reason,
this voyeuristic nonsense, hoping for a glimpse of a bare thigh,
turned me on with its silly kink.

Inside the stall, I heard her slide out of her bathrobe, and I saw a
slender arm reach up to hang it on a hook in the stall’s changing
area. Then there was the sound of another sliding plastic curtain,
and the water started.

Meanwhile, I trimmed my beard with a pair of tiny scissors I had
bought for that purpose. I knew that if I was going to see anything
interesting at all, it wouldn’t be until she came back out of the
inner cubicle. Sometimes women left the curtains open a little. I
wondered if they didn’t know about the mirror trick, or were just
deliberately taunting us.

Suddenly I heard a wet thump in the shower stall, and then a loud and
repeated coughing, choking noise. I put down my scissors. “Julie?” I
asked, in a mid-tone between “concerned” and “no-I’m-not-being-nosy”.
Then there was a fairly loud noise, like someone vomiting. “Julie?!”
I called, much louder and less-worried-about-being-nosy. There were
more choking sounds and a wet thrashing on the floor of the stall.

Ok, so this is where normal, socially polite behaviors get dropped–
you can’t hesitate about saving a drowning victim because he’s skinny
dipping, and you want to respect his privacy. I ran into the shower
stall, on fire with “rescue fever”. I tore open the inner curtain to
see what was happening, and… there was Julie.

Well, of course, there was Julie. I knew that before I went
crashing into the stall. The trouble was, she didn’t really look all
that distressed or anything. In fact, she was kneeling on the floor
of the stall, with her legs tucked under her, swishing her hands and
thumping the floor to simulate the thrashing sounds I had heard. And
she was -grinning- at me.

“Well,” she said, “this is what you wanted to see, right?”

Oh shit.

I made a little choking sound of my own then, as I tried to make up
about 5 different lies at once, but couldn’t choose one quickly enough.

“What are you *doing*?” I managed to get out at last, “Are you crazy?”

She looked like a water nymph, there, with her brown hair soaked and
laying on her shoulders, and small rivulets of water running down
her olive skin.

“I was just playing a little joke on you * Mr. Peeping Tom *.” That
grin still didn’t quit. _One_ of us obviously thought this situation
was amusing.

“I can’t…I just…I…” that was about as coherent as I was going
to get, apparently. I’m sometimes fluent when I’m angry, but never
when I’m embarrassed.

She said, “Oh, don’t take it so hard,” and smiled winsomely.

I wish she hadn’t used the word ‘hard’. Her flat little breasts,
and tight brown nipples, were starting to get me ‘interested’ in an
altogether unacceptable manner.

She held her hand out to me, “Help me up?” Despite the unlikeliness
of her needing any assistance, I took her hand and helped her to
regain her feet. Even though the shower stall was built down about
three inches from the changing area where I stood, she still came
almost up to my nose. The steaming water was still pouring onto her,
and she brushed her wet hair back behind her ears. Then she tilted
her head up towards me, eyes closed and lips parted invitingly.

I stepped back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“What was all this about? Where’s Greg, anyway? Is this some kind
of practical joke?” I sound pretty authoritative when I squeak like that.

“Greg’s at marching band practice. He won’t be back until 8.”

“It’s raining out! They’ll cancel it!”

“Silly. They practice in the dome. What’s the matter, don’t you
like the way I look?” She looked a little downcast.

“Well, of COURSE I like the way you look–,” I stopped then, because
she was looking really amused at having suckered me with the sad look.
I was beginning to feel completely outmaneuvered, and a little panicky.

She stepped out of the stall, then, and backed me into the clothes
alcove, tracing a line down my chest with her fingernail. She was
leaving a dripping trail on the floor. I don’t know why I noticed
that.

“You watch me every time I get in the shower. There must be something
you like.” She bit her lip. “Something you want.”

I swallowed. I was sweating uncomfortably, because I knew exactly
what I wanted, and if I got it, it would lead to no end of trouble.

She leaned in towards me, and my back was up against the cold tiled
wall. Her small, flat breasts pressed against my bare chest, and I
could feel the hard tips of her nipples pressing into my skin. Once
again, she tilted her head up towards me, her eyes closed, and her lips
slightly parted. This time, I lowered my mouth onto hers.

She had a sweet tasting mouth. She was a gentle kisser, she lapped
softly at your lips, rather than trying to devour you. But she was
thorough, too, and her tongue intruded gently into every part of your
mouth. As I kissed her, I fantasized about how exquisite her gentle
kissing would be, if she were to kiss me somewhere else.

We made out softly for a long time. She didn’t put her arms around
my neck like a lot of women do. Instead, she caressed my shoulders and
chest, and played with my nipples. I did the same to her. She had
wonderful nipples, taut brown circles with hard nubs like little
pencil erasers. I rolled them in my fingers, and squeezed her small
breasts in my hands.

I took a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, and asked her
between kisses, “Do you like pinches?” She breathed the answer into my
mouth, so softly that I could barely hear her, “yes…” So I pinched
her, maybe a little harder than I normally would have, because she
had me so riled with emotion. She moaned into my mouth as we made
out, and her face winced with pain, but she pressed herself harder
against me, and began to rub her thigh against mine.

I was drenched and furiously, passionately aroused by then. The
shower was still thundering in the background, filling the changing
stall with steam, and our bodies were lobster red and sweating. She
licked the beads of sweat from my chest, and my stomach, and then
worked her way slowly downwards, until she was kneeling in front of
me, her face towards the waist button of my jeans.

She undid the button and the zipper with her slender fingers, and
pulled my jeans down to my thighs. Then she pulled the waistband of
my undershorts down, and exposed me. She put a fingertip on the head
of my cock, and swept up a bit of the clear fluid that was squeezing
out of the tip. She put her finger in her mouth and tasted it. “It’s
sweeter than Greg’s,” she said.

I wish she hadn’t said that. It pained me to look down at her, but
I did. And she was beautiful and almost innocent looking, which I
already knew. She said, “_You’re_ sweeter than Greg.” Oh, kill me.
Just stick a knife in me, and leave me for dead. I should never be
around women, I don’t have the guts for it.

She kissed me then, on the stomach. Then she kissed me right where
my brain was begging her to kiss me, and my breath caught in my lungs.
I made a small, agonized sound in my throat as her wet, gentle lips
caressed me. She licked and lapped at me in small motions – starting
at the head, and caressing her way slowly, warmly, gently downwards.
I thought I was going to die. She kissed me and sucked me, softly.
She licked and nibbled, yet more softly. I whimpered like a hurt
animal. Then she began to engulf me, inch by softly agonizing inch.

I was getting weak in the knees by this time–if I hadn’t been
leaning against a wall, I probably would have fallen down. My
legs trembled and I gritted my teeth in desperate concentration.
Then she began to bob her head.

I knew I couldn’t hold out long; I could feel a lava heat rising
fast through my loins. I had to stop her, then, so I wouldn’t come in
her mouth. “Julie,” I gasped, “Stop it. Stop. I’m gonna come.” She
put her hands on my thighs, then, and began to bob her head and suck
me hard. I breathed in sharply, and then lost it. Oh boy, did I lose
it. I shot out my seed so hard that it hurt me. I blasted 4, 5,
maybe 6 times… My loins kept on contracting violently–and she kept
on sucking me, and milking me with her hands, until long after I had
run dry.

The inside of my cock burned from the force of my ejaculations. I
slumped down to the floor, then, my legs no longer able to hold me
up. I ended up sitting on the floor with my back to the wall. She
crawled up against me, and tucked herself under my arm.

“How do you feel?” she asked, running her hands through my hair,
where it fell on my shoulders. I looked at her as if I’d been
sentenced to be shot at dawn. She kissed my shoulder. “Oh, it
can’t be that bad, can it?” she asked. “I’ve always liked you, Sam.”

I closed my eyes, and tried to think of something to say. My head
was still swimming, and I couldn’t seem to line up even half of a
coherent thought. I just kept seeing visions of Lisa. I shook my
head, but _that_ thought wouldn’t go away. I kept seeing Lisa telling
me not to come back. Not to call her. Not to see her. Ever.

I started to shake. Julie put her arms around my neck. Even though
she might be the key to the unraveling of my whole life, I needed
somebody to hold onto at that moment; so I pulled her against me and
squeezed her hard.

I held on to her, and listened as the water ran down the drain.

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