"So...we might as well not get started, y'know?" she said, uncomfortable.
"But I still want to do it with you tonight. I mean, if you're willing," he said hesitantly.
She was surprised. "You don't mind?"
"No, of course not,"
"But what about the mess?"
"I've got dark towels, and there's laundry in the basement of the dorm. No problem."
"Oh my god," he said, laughing, "it went right through the towel, and into my sheets. Can you give me a hand stripping the bed? ...Oh, and right into the mattress!"
"I'm sorry!" she muttered, looking miserable
"Hey, no problem! It was worth it," he said, kissing her. She flinched at the contact. "I just need to make sure to get fresh sheets on before my roommate gets back."
"But what about the end of the year?"
"Huh. I guess we'll be passing it on to posterity. Hey, we should sign and date it. Conceptual art!"
She started to giggle.
They hugged goodbye rather chastely on the front porch; you never knew when neighbors were looking. She unlocked her bicycle and, wincing slightly, sat down on it. She looked over her shoulder, and her heart jumped at the sight of him still standing on his porch waving. She waved back, and set out.
As she came to the big hill north of his house, she got up off of the seat to put her weight onto the pedals. A thick drop of semen oozed from her swollen anus and ran, ticklish and hot, down the back of her steadily pumping thigh.
He returned to the party downstairs. As he passed through the kitchen, she walked up to him with a cool little smile. She leaned in very close to his face, and inhaled deeply through her nose. Her smile broadened. "Your beard is damp," she told him. He stroked it, a little self-consciously.
"How was she?" she asked.
"Delicious," he answered.
"One, two, three, four, and, on the opposite side, five. I wonder how you got those bruises on your thigh." His voice was teasing, but his stomach was in knots.
"I'm really pissed at him," she said, her eyes avoiding his, "I told him I didn't want to have any marks for this weekend."
"Tsk! Boys!" his voice the same, his stomach unsoothed.
"Oh, wow," she sighed, rubbing her sore ass gingerly, her eyes watering. "That was intense...you've got a heavy hand, lover." She craned her neck to try to assess the damage. "I'm gonna be red for days from those last few."
"Oops," he said.
They were still lying on our backs, gasping and sticky, when she caught sight of the time, and sprang into action, frantically gathering her clothes. After a moment, she enlisted his help in tracking them down.
One of her socks was behind the stereo. Her panties had somehow gotten themselves wadded inside one leg of his jeans, not to be discovered until they'd given up on them and he'd started to get dressed himself. She had to leave without the other sock. Two days later he found it: it had gotten thrown on top of the bookshelf on the other side of the room.
"You *did* fuck her, didn't you?" she demanded furiously.
He glared and repeated, "That's none of your business."
"You haven't even moved your stuff out yet!" she shouted.
"What does that prove? You may recall that you and I have broken up. Which means that--"
"Wait a second-- I know!" She dashed into the bedroom, opened the bottom dresser drawer, rifled through calculators, art supplies, stacks of photographs. When they had thought they were going to have sex, he had dashed out and bought a small box of condoms. When her nerve had failed once again, it had found its way in a drawer of miscellaneous forgotten items. Now it was missing. She felt a wave of triumph at her detective work before the sobs started.
The next day, he discovered that he couldn't read or hear the word "fellatio" or any of its synonyms or euphemisms without a heart-pounding wave of recollection washing over him. Each time he would relive the moment when, at her urging, he had tightly gripped her hair and roughly shoved into her mouth until her nose was pressed against his stomach. He would feel the texture of her hair, the pressure of her throat; hear her muffled groans.
The memory would fill his mind utterly for several seconds so that he felt hollowed out--a vessel for visions that were more alive, more real than he was.
He felt like a shell-shocked veteran--scarred, perhaps permanently, by terrible pleasure.