He takes my slicked wrist in his hand. He pulls my hand to his mouth and takes a tentative lick across my palm. He moves my juice coated hand to his flaccid cock and I take him in my fingers and jerk him as best I can. He slips in and out of my grip as I mix my juices with come. He guides my hand to my belly and circles my palm and spread fingers around and around as if he's trying to mop up his come and my sweat. He slides my hand to the modest swell of my tits and I feel my fingers slide over me until my palm is square over my left nipple. He glides me in sliding palm circles until my hard nipple feels every line of my palm. He does the same with my right nipple and I love him for it. I nearly speak as he sits next to me as he sucks on my tits. I lean back and enjoy. I have no idea how long he plays his tongue and mouth over me but it seems like hours.

I see my palm as he holds my hand in front of my face. I feel him lick the back of my hand as he releases my wrist. I lick too. We use our mouths to clean me lick by lick. We suck my fingers one at a time, my mouth then his, my mouth then his. It's gentle. It's thorough. We kiss regularly and often. I see his eyes and face and mouth and nose and welcome being close to him. I feel warm all over. And loved. And wanted.

He guides me on to my back and shuffles himself down my body. He lies on top of me and dives his face between my thighs. I put his cock into my mouth and start a long slow leisurely exploration with my tongue and lips and throat. He explores me with his tongue, his gentle and respectful fingers. I come first. A gentle come. Later, much later, he comes down my throat.

I sleep in his arms and it seems so divorced from my chase of the hard come. It seems so reasonable. In the morning he is gone.

I convince myself of many things. That sex is sex for one thing. That chasing the hard come is a chase that I have to make. That he watching me is vital and necessary and needed by both of us. A week later I see him and tell him of my occupying thoughts of late. But he tells me he has to work and that he isn't interested in sharing me. A week after that I see him in the supermarket. I actually want him to fill my three holes. One after the other, as part of the same sexual adventure: a night of fucking. Forget three men at a time. I want one.

He says he has to work.

I say, "what time do you finish?"

He says 1.00 am.

I say, "call around after work. I add "alone." I say it matter of fact. I give him my spare key. I convince myself that my needs are entirely sexual.

I go home.

I wait.

He doesn't show.

A week after that there's an envelope in my letter box. My key is in it. The note has his phone number. Sex is one thing, it says. But there are more things. He doesn't leave his name. A whole semester passes before I find myself in the library right before it closes. I am alone. I see the spot where I stood before him. I see the smoke stop doors to the stairwell. My essay stares back at me. I hold my hand in front of my face and contemplate it. Normal people want movies and a drink and food. Normal girls do not fist themselves in front of a guy they met by sucking him off in a stairwell.

I take my cell phone. I call him. He answers. I think of my hard come and the respectful moments. I think of all we've shared. I realise I have never told him my name. I say, "it's me."

He doesn't say where. He says, "what?"