I was standing in front of the door to my dorm room when the question hit me:
What if we don’t get along?
The thought had never crossed my mind. Sure, I knew that college roommates were a kind of lottery. You never know what you’re gonna get. You could get someone who becomes your best friend for life, or you could get a horror story that you tell your friends about for years.
And now, it was my turn to participate in the roommate lottery. My prize was waiting for me behind that door.
"Out of the way!" a voice behind me said. A girl’s voice, rough and exhausted under physical strain.
I turned around and, immediately, I was pushed aside by a girl carrying a massive bean bag. She kicked up and brought her foot down on the door handle, then pushed the door open and rushed into the room. The door closed in front of me, and I was left out in the hallway once again.
Now, another question ran through my mind:
Was that my roommate?
The answer was obvious, but that didn’t make it less frightening.
When I finally got into my room, I was met with a worrying sight. It was a mess. There were plastic bags covering every square inch of the floor, piles of shoes on the floor, and cardboard boxes stacked up to the ceiling. Whoever this girl was, she seemed to be under the impression that the entire room was hers, and I could see why. She was filling it just fine on her own.
I navigated my way around her shoes, boxes, and suitcases, and made my way to my bed. The mattress was too thin, looking more like a wrestling mat than something you were supposed to sleep on, but that wasn’t my problem with the bed. It was the fact that I could barely see it under the mountain of clothes lying on top of it.
I turned around and caught the girl setting the bean bag down in the center of the room. As the bean bag hit the floor, a spray of tiny white balls shot out of it and spread across the floor. There was a hole in the middle of the bean bag and whatever it was stuffed with was now covering our floor.
"There’s a hole in your…bean bag," I said, scarcely believing that those had been the first words I’d spoken to my college roommate.
"I know," the girl said, and pointed to a strip of masking tape, yellowed with time, lying lazily over the massive tear in the bean bag. "I fixed it."
"Clearly," I said, pointing to the trail of white balls strewn over our floor.
"I’ll clean that up," she said, "who cares about a little spillage when you can have a freaking bean bag in your room?"
"Are these your clothes on my bed?" I asked.
"Yep," she said.
I sighed. I wanted to tell her to move them, wanted to tell her to clean up her mess, wanted to ask why she’d brought any of this junk to her with college…but I couldn’t. I was always the quiet girl, all polite smiles and frustrated sighs and repressed outbursts. I reminded myself that I hate confrontations, that I’d have to live with this girl for at least…
The university sent me about a hundred emails a day ever since I’d been accepted, and I’d read every single one of them. A few lines from one the emails flashed through my mind:
"All freshman dorms are full to capacity. Requests for room changes must be filed with your Residential Advisor, but are not guaranteed."
There was something else in there about getting an emergency or temporary room change if something in your room was a threat to your health or safety, but you’d have to file a formal complaint with the university to apply for that…
If I went that route, this girl would definitely find out and, if I filed a complaint on the very first day, nobody would take me seriously.
I was stuck in this room, with this girl, for the foreseeable future. A few weeks at least, probably a month or two.
So I grit my teeth and sat on my suitcase.
"You want me to move the clothes, don’t you?" the girl asked.
"I–uh," I started.
The girl rolled her eyes. "You should’ve just said something. I could see you eyeballing me and fuming over there, sitting on your suitcase."
"I wasn’t–" I started, but the girl waved my words away. She picked up the clothes in one giant armfull and then plopped them on her bed.
Somehow, I felt even worse, like I’d manipulated her into doing what I wanted by sitting on my suitcase and sighing and hoping she’d get the hint. I had been passive aggressive since this girl had laid eyes on me and now she wouldn’t even look at me.
We didn’t speak for a few hours. I unpacked my suitcases and she unpacked hers, pulling out more piles of clothes. It really did look like she’d brought her entire closet with her to college. I caught a few glimpses of her stuff, which told me a little about her. She was a little sporty, with maybe a punk vibe. She had dozens of t-shirts and tank tops and sneakers, and more faded skinny jeans than anyone I’d ever met. She’d brought a lot of makeup too, which surprised me. She didn’t look like she was wearing any, but, then again, I spotted a few dresses and formal blouses in her piles of clothes.
All in all, she seemed like an interesting person. She liked to dress sporty and comfortably, but she also seemed to like dressing up. Some of her clothing was sporty or punk, but a lot of it was feminine too.
The girl was pretty, in an almost effortless way. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, she wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. But she had the face of a pixie, with a cute button nose, wide, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a heavy dusting of freckles over her rosy cheeks.
"My name’s Han," she said, suddenly.
"Han?" I asked.
"Yeah, like 'Han Solo,’" she said.
She was dead serious.
There were a few moments of heavy, uncomfortable, thick silence.
"It’s actually Hannah," she said, "but I like Han."
I chuckled, then she joined in and, before long, we were laughing like maniacs.
Han didn’t turn out to be a horror story, but she was far from perfect. Most nights, she’d go to bed well after 3 AM. She listened to music without earphones, always seemed to be eating (and chewing with her mouth open), and left piles of dirty laundry all over the room.
And then there were her pajamas. For the first couple of weeks, Han wore sweatpants and a tank top to bed. One night, however, she came out of the bathroom wearing…nothing at all. I looked up from my laptop and immediately covered my eyes.
"Oh," I yelped, "sorry!"
"About what?" Han said.
"I didn’t know you were gonna get dressed out here," I said, still shielding my eyes.
"I’m not," Han said.
"Oh," I said, "are you gonna take a shower?"
"Nope," Han said, "I’m going to bed."
But she didn’t go to bed. Not right away. She sat on her desk, facing me, reading something on her computer.
I couldn’t help but look. Her body was toned and tanned and she appeared to be hairless from the neck down. There were a couple of tattoos on her ankles, thighs, hips, and rib–
Han’s eyes flicked up and met mine.
I looked away, turning red, but my eyes caught something else before they left her skin. She was smiling. Biting her lip.
I had never looked at another girl that way in my life. Growing up, I was a homeschooled only child. The only friends I had were the daughters of my mother’s friends. As I got older, I joined a cross fit gym and dance classes, but I had never looked at another girl in the locker room. Not once. Most of us didn’t even change after class. But…I hadn’t wanted to look at another girl in the locker room, had I?
I thought back, and all I remembered was a daze of near-constant anxiety about doing enough extracurriculars and acing the SATs and writing the perfect essay. My parents were my teachers, my principals, and my college advisors. They were on top of every application, every requirement, every essay, every deadline.
There had simply been no time for boys or girls or worrying about how they made me feel.
But now, all of that had fallen away. Sure, I had college work to catch up on, but it seemed easier than my work at home. Nobody was looking over my shoulder to make sure I finished all my work. My parents weren’t here. The only person here was Han, and she was naked. And I had looked at her. And she that knew I had looked at her.
That night, when I shut off my light and crawled into bed, I heard something. It sounded like…smacking? Something wet, moving up and down and…that wasn’t all. Han’s bed strained and creaked. I heard her shifting, settling, stretching, sighing and…moaning.
I flushed, heat gripping my skin. The room was hot, even with the windows open. I kicked off my sheets, feeling the breeze find the sweat on my skin.
It was at that moment that I realized something else. I couldn’t just hear Han, I could smell her. Her scent was sweet and heady, and I could feel it radiating like heat from her side of the room, creeping into mine with the breeze. I knew what an aroused woman smelt like, but only because I’d smelt like that myself. I had never smelt someone else’s arousal…and it was having an effect on me.
I felt my body respond. The heat that was building under my skin began traveling south and congregating between my thighs.
I bit my lip.
Han was dead quiet. She wasn’t moving any more, wasn’t sighing or…
She moaned, much louder than before. It felt like a response to my moan, an acknowledgement of my arousal. Was it something else, too? An invitation? A siren call?
My body moved on its own before I knew what I was doing, and I found myself kicking off my pajama bottoms and pulling off my t-shirt. In a blink and a breath, I was standing in front of Han’s bed, completely naked, and I could still hear her touching herself, pleasuring herself.
Then she stopped. I could feel her sit up in bed.
"What do you want?" Han asked.
"I want to fuck you," I said.
In the dim light, I saw her spread her legs.
"I want that too," Han said, "now are you gonna join me or not?"
I practically threw myself on her, my mouth finding that hot, hungry, waiting opening between her legs. She was so wet down there, wet and hot and slick and, without knowing why, I began licking her, and she tasted good. It was a musky taste, sweet and just a little tart.
I felt Han grab the back of my head with both hands and pull me closer, forcing my tongue into through her pussy lips and into her vagina.
She was moaning, grinding her crotch into my eager mouth as I licked and licked and swallowed her juices. My tongue worked feverishly, tracing the inner walls of her pussy, looking for a spot I’d hit on myself a few times and…
Han screamed as my tongue flicked her clit, and I didn’t let up. I licked and lapped and sucked on her clit, making her squeal so hard I’m sure that every room on our floor (and the ones above and below us) knew what we were doing.
Then she pushed me off her and, for a split second, a feeling of cold dread washed over me. Had I done something wrong? But then those worries fell away. Han was chuckling.
"Not bad," she said, "but I can tell you’re new at this. So I’m going to show you how to do it right."
There was that cold feeling of dread again. I had an idea where this was going, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.
Han spread my legs open and began licking the juices off my inner thighs. Her tongue was hot, but the trail of cold saliva it left behind made it feel like an ice cube sliding across my flushed skin. I had licked Han wildly, possessed by an animalistic need for pleasure. There was no time to be methodical or slow, or to let things build.
But she was working on me like an artist, tracing the contours of my sex, moving ever so slowly toward my clit. Then she did something that blew my mind. As she was eating me out, she brought one of her hands up and penetrated me with her fingers, working me from the inside and then…stroking my G-spot with her fingers as she hit my clit with her tongue.
I saw stars and, for a few blissful moments, there was nothing in the world except our two bodies, slick with sweat, brought together by pleasure.
Han and I had gotten off on the wrong foot, but now something had changed, some barrier had been broken. We weren’t just roommates anymore. We were something else entirely.
I slept on her bed that night, our naked bodies holding each other through the night. I knew, at that moment, that I’d won the college roommate lottery.
Written by: F. Inglewood
F. Inglewood is a writer who strives to transport readers into vivid, personal and erotic worlds. Each of their stories is a sensual escapade that you might find yourself daydreaming about. After all, it could happen to you!