The cost of housing was unacceptably high—astronomically high for a new college kid. I’d tried one “reasonable” apartment a mile or so from the charming Eastern Campus, with its ivy-covered stone buildings. It was only reasonable because the slumlord couldn’t get anyone else to live there (I learned that the hard way). After a week of battling to clean the place, I gave up. The rancid, rotten smells were baked deep into the decay of the building. So I bought a mobile home. Back then, they called them “trailers.”
Robyn, my wife, and I—both college students—came to love those cramped quarters. They were light, clean, and most importantly, ours. That summer, she’d invited an “aunt” to visit as she passed through on her way to spend some time in Spain. As I understood it, this lady—Dorothy was her name—was the aunt of Robyn’s sister-in-law. Despite the distant connection, they were friends, and I’d developed real affection for her, so having her stay with us for a week or so was no big deal.
Dorothy was thirty-something, carrying a few extra pounds, and bursting with a lust for life. She had an easy acceptance of people and a delightful, sassy way of putting everyone at ease. Often she’d toss out a sexy remark, then lock eyes with me, squinting in laughter.
The second evening, we sat in front of a big floor fan blowing over a bowl of ice. The humid scorcher of a day had offered little relief, and we were all dressed lightly. Maybe copying Robyn’s relaxed vibe, I noticed Dorothy’s sleeveless top was damp with sweat and clinging to her ample, braless breasts. At one point Robyn caught my eye and subtly gestured toward Dorothy’s prominent nipples. I grinned back—ours was an easy, open relationship, and I appreciated her silent green light to look.
Our bedroom was at the very back, right behind the bathroom. Forward of that was the “middle room”—really just a wide spot in the hallway—with a bunk bed. Dorothy was curled up on her made-up bunk reading a novel. On my way to the john, I stopped to chat. The conversation stretched, so I sat on the edge of her bed, then soon leaned against the opposite wall, perfectly comfortable with her.
“I’ve got to clean up,” she announced. “I’m meeting Robyn for tennis.” Without waiting for me to leave, she swung off the bed and rounded the corner into the bathroom, still talking.
The “bathroom” was a glorified closet: a too-small tub, a toilet, and a sink. A shower curtain stretched across the tub had long since become an indoor drying rod for lingerie. I was used to Robyn’s dainty things hanging there, but since Dorothy arrived the day before, a new, sexier collection had appeared—brief, lacy pieces. The cut-away bra read 36-D, and the panties I’d spotted that morning were tiny, French-cut with high sides, way ahead of the fashion curve.
The trailer walls were paper-thin. I knew she could hear Robyn and me making love at night—Robyn wasn’t quiet when she came. I was also used to the usual bathroom sounds from both women. You adapt to trailer intimacy or you lose your mind. So I wasn’t fazed when she kept the conversation going from inside the bathroom while I stayed on her bed.
From where I sat, facing down the hall toward the bathroom, I watched her clothes fly out the door and pile up on the floor.
Our chatting paused when the shower started. I sat there, picturing this attractive woman soaping her breasts in my shower. God, I wanted to watch. I wanted to know if her pubic hair was the same light brown as the hair on her head. On top of her discarded clothes lay another pair of rumpled panties. Would they smell like her?
“Well, will you?” Her voice yanked me back.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Will I what?”
A flash of light flickered on the wall between the bunk bed and the bathroom. I remembered the empty screw hole there—a perfect peephole straight into the bathroom.
I’m not against peeping. I’ve always known there’s a voyeur in me, but I’d never had the opportunity until now. It was risky—she knew I was right there, only feet away—but the danger made my pulse race.
“Will you show me around campus tomorrow?” she asked.
I realized why her voice was so clear: she hadn’t slid the pocket door shut. She must be drying off in the tub. Dare I look?
“Uh, sure… be glad to,” I answered, crawling across the bed on my knees and pressing my eye to the hole. At first I saw only the mirror opposite, then she stepped into frame—a towel wrapped around her head, rubbing herself vigorously with another.
“Oh, good. Robyn’s going to be buried in the library tomorrow,” she said. “We can get to know each other better.”
I know exactly how I’d like to get to know you, I thought.
She stood with her back to me. I could see her entire backside down to the full curve of her hips and round buttocks. The mirror gave me a stunning reflected view of her large breasts from the side and front. She paused, leaned forward to check some invisible mark on one tit, then said, “S’cuse me a minute… gotta go.”
I heard the door slide closed. In seconds I was off the bed, snatching her panties and pressing them to my nose. Her scent hit me hard—strong perfume mixed with the raw, musky aroma of her pussy. Hearing her pee on the other side of the door, inhaling her panties, I was suddenly rock-hard. God, I was horny.
I dropped the underwear and rushed back to the peephole. She was sitting on the toilet right in front of me—too low to see directly—but the big mirror over the sink gave a perfect view of her front.
My brain short-circuits when I’m this turned on. Blood drain, maybe. My clever chat dropped to: “You have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she called back loudly. “A boyfriend? Hardly… but I do have a couple of men friends. Nothing serious. Why?”
“Dunno… just curious,” I said.
The toilet paper roll rattled. I watched her fold a thick wad of tissue, then—with her right leg cocked up—reach down and pat herself thoroughly. Her pubic hair was full, medium brown, disappearing between her thighs. When she dropped the tissues, she leaned back, legs spread, and said, “Well, as you might guess, there are times I wish I had a man in my life. Actually,” she laughed ruefully, “what I’d really like is someone when I want him… if you know what I mean.”
“Sure I know what you mean… doesn’t everyone?” I kept pulling my head back to answer—I was convinced she’d feel the vibrations if I spoke with my eye glued to the hole.
Her right hand drifted back to her pussy, tracing a finger lightly up and down through the hair, pausing near the top of her slit. Was I really about to watch this woman masturbate? And what the hell did she think I was doing out here?
She went silent. Eyes closed, head tilted back, tongue tip poking out, she spread her lips with her left hand and slid her right middle finger inside her cunt. She had to know I might be wondering what she was up to. The thought made my cock throb harder.
I couldn’t resist. I pulled out my dick, eye jammed against the hole, and started stroking. “What do you do for yourself?” (Stupid question, but leading as hell.)
She answered breathlessly, a little exasperated: “What does anyone do?”
Jack off, I thought—just like we’re both doing right now, separated by this thin wall… and I’m watching you.
“What do you do?” she asked. I saw her open her eyes and smile toward the door.
What happened next wasn’t planned. If I’d paused to think, I never would’ve done it. But overthinking has never been my problem. I slid off the bed, stepped to the pocket door, cock in my right hand, stroking. With my left, I slid the door open and said, “This!”
Her hand was buried deep in her pussy, body slumped, legs extended. Her eyes flew open as she turned. Her thighs clamped on her hand for a second. Then her gaze dropped straight to my cock.
This was the moment. Was I fucked, or about to get fucked?
She smiled, eased her thighs apart but kept her hand in place. “We’ve only got a few minutes,” she said, eyes questioning.
“That’s all it’ll take. I’m about to explode. Come on—get out here and bend over the bed. We’ll do it that way.”
She climbed off the toilet, stepped into the bedroom, bent over the end of the bunk, head down, and groaned, “Oh, Christ… this is my favorite way… DO it!”
Her ass cheeks parted as she bent low. I admired the tight pucker of her asshole and wondered for half a second… No—this is pussy time. I dropped to my knees, buried my face between her legs, and tasted the warm, slick wetness of her cunt.
“Come on, come on! Put it in. I want it inside me. Don’t tease—put your cock in my CUNT.” She spat the word hard, reaching back with both hands to spread her cheeks wide.
I stood, gripped her hips, and lunged—driving my rigid dick balls-deep into her pussy in one brutal thrust.
“Uuummmphhhh… yes-s-s-s… fuck me,” she grunted, making “fuck” sound filthy and urgent.
This wasn’t lovemaking. I wasn’t trying to impress her with skill or lasting power. I had maybe three minutes in me, tops. Holding her heavy breasts, I pounded hard, muttering every dirty word that came to mind as my orgasm built.
“Now!” she shouted. “Now—I’m gonna cum… now… harder… harder!”
“Here we go-o-o-o… cumming… in you… my cum… in your pussy… in your cunt… oh, shit… take it all!”
We collapsed onto the bed together, gasping, spent.
The next day, Robyn asked with a grin, “Did you like it? Did you like screwing Dorothy?”
I smiled up at the ceiling and said, “Did you set this up? Did you and Dorothy set me up? If so… thanks. And yes, I loved it.”
