Roads Less Traveled

This story is an official entry in the 2010 Literotica Summer Lovin' Contest. If you enjoy it, please take a few moments to vote after reading.

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The guy had the most beautiful cock she had ever seen.

Not that she'd really seen that many. Carrie had seen her father's and her brother's, of course, but neither in a sexual way. There had been four boys, though, two in high school and two during her freshman year in college. All of them had rather average penises, although the last one, Mike, had been very proficient in using his. But this guy...

He was exquisite. The sight of him made her ass clench and her belly thrum with excitement. And that just wasn't okay.

Because she'd sworn off men during her freshman year, had even thought about switching teams—she loved women, and was attracted to them almost as equally as men. At least, that's what she'd told herself after Mike, and for three years, she'd believed it—until she saw the guy with the gorgeous cock stroking it in the dorm bathroom.

And it was all her own damned fault.

They had co-ed dorms, each gender separated by floors. She was on the second, in a room on the end, and the bathroom was all the way at the other end of the long tiled hallway. At three in the morning, snuggled under the covers with an aching bladder full of beer and an already-throbbing head, Carrie would fight her body, listening to her roommate, Maureen, snoring softly in the darkness, until she couldn't stand it for another minute.

By that time, the distance down the hall to the left seemed like miles. It was much faster to sprint down the short flight of stairs to her right where, just inside the door at the bottom, the first floor bathroom sat empty and oh-so-accessible. If it just happened to be the boys' bathroom, well, she could always feign intoxication, apologize profusely and skedaddle—she had, on one occasion, interrupted a guy at a urinal, whose surprise had nearly caused a horrible zipper accident.

But most of the time, she simply slipped in, quickly relieved herself, and was back in her own bed before anyone spotted her. Besides, it was summer now, and only a fraction of the school's student body was even on campus. The odds of her getting caught went down considerably during summer term.

She probably would have slipped in and out unnoticed that night, too, except she heard his low, soft moan. She sat, her bladder throbbing blissfully in relief, and listened, her breath still in her throat. At first, she assumed it was some drunk guy moaning to the porcelain god, about to toss his cookies. Then he moaned again, and she distinctly heard him whisper hoarsely, "Yeah, baby, fuck me!"

The words made her flush with heat, and when she wiped herself, her pussy was moist with more than just urine. She sat frozen, barely breathing, her whole body attuned to the sound. She couldn't quite tell where it was coming from. It wasn't any of the six bathroom stalls—like most men's rooms, none of them had doors, and she was in the very last. So where was he?

Carrie stood and, instead of flushing, crept out of the stall in pink stockinged feet, pulling her robe more tightly around her. The stalls were behind a wall—at least it gave them some modicum of privacy—and the sinks were on the other side of that. She'd peeked in before heading toward a stall and hadn't seen anyone.

"Oh god, yeah! Gimme that hot little pussy!"

Carrie stopped and blinked, her own little pussy suddenly quite hot, looking at the row of sinks, which all stood empty, the mirror above the first one reflecting her smeared mascara and a disheveled blond mass of hair. Then she glanced at the row of shower stalls across from the sinks with a dawning realization.

"Oh that's so good! Fuck me hard!" The guy made a low growl in his throat that sent shivers through her as she crept closer to the showers. The bathrooms in the building were all the same, and the showers down here were no different than they were upstairs, six stalls across with dark brown curtains you could draw for privacy. Only one of them was pulled closed, and that's where she was sure the voice was coming from. It was the biggest shower stall, the handicapped-accessible one.

The one with the bench.

That's when she knew she had to see him. Just the image of him stretched out on that tiled slab, cock in hand, had her breathless with lust. She could hear his breath now, fast and harsh. The shower wasn't on and the tile under her feet was dry as she neared the curtain, listening to him moan and grunt behind it.

"Don't stop," he whispered—a true whisper this time, but she could hear it. He was just on the other side of the fabric barrier. Did she dare? "You like that cock? You like it up inside you like that?"

She actually had to bite her lip to keep from moaning her agreement, and without another thought, her hand slipped between the slit in her robe to cup her mound through the cotton stretch of her panties as she used just one finger of her other hand to inch the edge of the curtain aside. That was all she needed.

It took all of her willpower not to gasp at the sight of him, like some bronzed Greek god. The bench was long enough for him to stretch out, and he was completely nude, a pair of boxers beside him on the floor, a dark-colored material—a robe—spread out beneath him over the tile's surface. His eyes were closed—thank god—the hair on his head dark and curly, his mouth slightly open as he pumped his fist between his legs.

She took in all of this in an instant, the overhead fluorescents, which stayed on throughout the night, giving her a clear view of the lewd scene, and while she noted and appreciated the defined muscles in his arms, chest and stomach and the dark line of hair that extended from his navel downward, her focus centered solely on his cock, thick and hard and fucking the fist wrapped around it.

She recognized him, of course—he was in her Comparative Religion class, and had been in her Psychology class two years before. She'd seen him coming and going, they'd even nodded "hi" to each other in passing. Her roommate Maureen had talked about him a few times—he was on the soccer team with Maureen's boyfriend, James. What was his name again? Steve...something...Brumbaugh? She couldn't remember.

Leaning against the wall, she watched, unable to ignore the insistent pulse between her own legs. Her fingers slipped under the elastic leg of her panties, noting the wet cotton crotch, before parting the dark blonde tangle of curls that barred the way to her core. The heat of her pussy was incredible, and she slipped her fingers inside as she watched him thrust into his own fist.

She usually didn't use any sort of penetration when she masturbated, preferring just to circle her clit to completion, but his cock made her weak with longing. He was imagining some girl fucking him, she knew, and she found herself wanting to be that girl, aching to climb on top of him and go for a long, wet ride on that magnificent thing. She rocked her hand, back and forth, fingering herself, catching his rhythm, her thumb teasing her clit, and it took everything she had not to whimper in pleasure.

"Ohhh fuck! Don't make me come yet!" He moaned, his head going back, his hips rocking up, his hand still now, squeezing so hard the tip of his cock practically turned purple. Carrie watched, trying to control her breath, as he slowly released his death grip and a thick trickle of pre-cum slid down the glorious length of his dick.

"That was close," he whispered and she nodded in agreement, swallowing hard and leaning her hot forehead against the cool tile. He shook his cock a little from side to side and then slapped it gently against the hard muscles of his belly. Seeing him do that was both sexy and embarrassing—he thought he was completely alone, having a private fantasy, and she damned well knew she should get back to her room as fast as she could. Not only was she in danger of him seeing her, there was the added threat that anyone could walk into the bathroom at any minute.

"I want your mouth."

Carrie groaned inwardly, her salivary glands already working overtime. If there was one thing she loved, truly loved, it was giving head. She may have made it through high school a virgin, but none of her boyfriends could complain they weren't satisfied. All of them had praised her oral skills, even the very first one, and she'd only gotten better with time.

"Suck me off, baby, while I lick your sweet little cunt."

Oh yes. That was her other favorite thing. It was no wonder she'd decided batting for the other team wasn't such a bad idea, given how much oral sex she'd shared with girlfriends in high school and college. She loved the taste of pussy almost as much as she loved sucking cock. Maybe more. God, it was so hard to choose.

"That's it, alllll around the tip," he urged, and her eyes widened as he licked his hand and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, easing it over the already slick head of his cock. He began to stroke it that way, no fist this time, just the circle of his finger and thumb moving over the head.

Right where I want my mouth, she thought, her fingers busy again, this time back at her clit instead of inside. She'd stopped worrying about him seeing her—he was too focused on what he was doing to notice or probably care—and hell, so was she.

"Oh god, I love the taste of your pussy," he murmured, and Carrie flushed as she quickly tasted herself, musky and pungent, before slipping her fingers back into her panties. They were soaked now, and she didn't dare rub herself too hard, or he would hear the wet sound of her pussy. "Yeah, baby, come all over my face!"

Oh god. She rocked her hips, biting her lip hard as she did as she was told, imagining his tongue, his hands gripping her hips. Her clit throbbed with her climax, her pussy clamping down hard, and she wished, for the first time in a long time, that she had a cock inside of her as she came—his cock.

"Ahhhhhh god, I'm gonna come in your mouth!" he growled, bucking up, his fist taking over, pumping so fast it was all a blur. "Take it! Swallow it!"

Carrie did, lifting her wet fingers to her mouth again and sucking deep, watching a hot geyser of cum spill over his knuckles. His belly clenched and rolled as he moaned with pleasure, his cum frothing over the head of his dick as he thrust hard into his hand.

"Oh fuck," he murmured, his other arm thrown over his eyes. He was panting now, catching his breath, and she was glad, because so was she, and she didn't want him to hear her. When he sat up quickly, she nearly ran, but then he was standing, tossing his boxers onto the bench, his back to her as he quickly washed off in the shower.

She dared to linger, knowing she shouldn't, appreciating this new view, his ass cheeks clenching as he lathered his cum-covered cock with the soap from the dispenser on the wall. I could use a shower, she thought, watching the water bead on his tanned skin. The sight of him was mesmerizing, and she blamed her slow response on her fixation when he quickly twisted the knob to turn off the water, turning to grab his robe.

The sudden motion startled her, and it would have been fine if the tile beneath her feet hadn't been wet and soapy from his quick shower, the second drain behind her designed to capture the runoff. She didn't just step back, she leapt back, and slipped, going down hard on the tile—so hard her teeth rattled.

"What the hell?"

The curtain flew open and he stood there in his robe, his boxers in hand, gaping down at her.

"I'm sorry," she apologized meekly from the floor, her whole body flushed with embarrassment. It was horribly awkward, but she scrambled to her feet, making a bee-line to the exit.

"Hey!" he called after her, but she straight-armed the door, tearing up the stairs and into her room.

She stood there, panting harshly in the darkness, waiting for Maureen to wake up and ask what in the hell was going on. When she didn't, Carrie slid out of her robe and stripped off her wet socks, shoving them shamefully under the bed before climbing into it and hiding under the covers, hoping morning would never come.

* * * *

Carrie hated working in the cafeteria. Nothing screamed "I'm poor!" more than serving her classmates food every day. But she was poor. And they all had wealthy parents. Hell, they all had parents. That was more than she had.

"Where's Juliana?" Carrie poked her head out of the kitchen to see her staff sitting at a table together eating Frosted Flakes and scrambled eggs. She'd been the student manager since her freshman year.

"Sick," was the reply someone mumbled through a mouthful of granola, and Carrie rolled her eyes and sighed. Sick, translated in college-speak, meant hungover. Great. She was going to have to work the register.

It wasn't that it was a hard job—it was actually the easiest job description in the world. You just had to sit there and run cards through the machine. Still, she hated it. She hated the way they looked at her. Maybe she imagined the looks of pity, but it was the glassy not-there looks that bothered her the most. She was invisible, other, not a part of them.

At least it was mindless. She opened the doors when her staff had cleared their dishes and moved off to their stations. There was a power in that, seeing her hungry classmates lined up outside the locked glass doors, waiting to be let in. Still, it felt hollow, and it was.

Carrie sat and ran the first glut of cards as quickly as she could, the line backing up behind her, the chatter inane. And still, she envied them. She wanted to stand in line, too, oblivious to the concerns of the service worker sliding her I.D. through the card reader as she talked with her friends and worried about her finals.

Well, she was worried about her finals—but she was always worried about her grades. She'd lose her scholarship if she didn't, and in spite of Maureen's urging, she often turned down invitations to go out with the gang on a Friday or Saturday night because she had to study.

Two more weeks, she told herself, running another card through the reader and handing it back without even looking. At least the summer semester was slower than most. There would be a two week break between the end of the summer and the beginning of fall term, and she usually dreaded that brief break, with nowhere to go, no home to go to, but this year Maureen had talked her into coming with her to Key West. She'd been saving all year for the trip. And it was just one more year of school after that and she'd be free.

She reached for the next card—the line had thinned out now, and students were coming in sporadically—but it stuck fast in the hand holding it. Carrie looked up in surprise and felt her stomach drop when she saw was whose card it was. Her eyes moved up to meet his. He was smiling.

"Hi, Carrie."

Stephen J. Baumgartner. That's what it said on his card, she could see it printed next to the picture his thumb was half-covering.

"Uh, hi," Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. Last night was a dream. That's what she told herself when she'd turned off her alarm this morning and Maureen had pulled a pillow over her head as Carrie started getting ready to work the breakfast shift. It was all a fuzzy dream through the haze of Friday night drinking—she hadn't really slipped into the men's bathroom downstairs and watched a guy jerking off in the shower.

Except here he was, and just seeing him standing next to her, wearing the unofficial campus uniform—jeans, a preppy Polo shirt and loafers—brought it all back in a rush. She'd seen him out of those clothes, and the image of him sprawled on the shower bench, his cock in hand, was burned into her memory like a brand.

"So..." He let the word dangle and she flushed, willing someone to come in the door behind him. He'd finally let his card go and she ran it through the machine, handing it back when the indicator light went from red to green. The picture on it was a good one—he was photogenic, apparently, his dark hair a curly mop, a mischievous, lop-sided grin on his tanned face. Who took a good school I.D. picture, for pete's sake? No one! She had her eyes half-closed in hers, her honey-colored hair pulled back into a severe ponytail.

"There's gonna be a frat party tonight." He took his card back, slipping it into his wallet.

So they were going to pretend nothing had happened. Okay, she could do that. It was a relief to at least have a direction. But why was he telling her about it?

"Yeah, I'm sure Maureen will be there." That was all she could figure—he was interested in her roommate. Maureen never missed a frat party, finals be damned. Of course, she didn't have to worry about her grades, either. Her parents hadn't sent her to a small, prestigious New England school to get good grades—they'd sent her to find a suitable husband.

"What about you?" His smile was infectious and she had to fight the urge to smile back.

Instead, she shook her head. "Finals coming up."

"So you're gonna be all alone in your room studying all night?"

"I guess." She shrugged.

"Want some company?" Damn that smile. She thought he couldn't get any better-looking and then he went and smiled.

"I study better alone." It was usually enough of a rebuff for most guys.

He leaned toward her, palms flat on the table she was sitting at, his gaze fixed on hers. "Could be more fun with a partner."

Were they still talking about studying? She took a deep breath and looked away, behind him, where someone was coming in for breakfast. Thank god.

"I don't need a study-buddy, but thanks for the offer," she said, waving her hand dismissively as she reached past him to take an outstretched card.

"Ouch." The guy who gave her the card—she didn't know his name but recognized him by the bright red shock of hair on his head and a matching beard—slapped Stephen on the back and grinned. He must have overheard. She gave him his card back as he steered Stephen past her table, toward the cafeteria. "Come on, Doc, they don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing!"

Carrie sat there, all the air sucked from her lungs. Ice Queen? Did they really call her that? It was so far from the truth it was almost funny, but she wasn't laughing. In fact, she found herself on the verge of tears.

She heard laughter as the two of them got into line. Her face burned and her eyes stung. She just sat there, motionless, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest.

Ice Queen, am I? she thought, her eyes narrowing, her mouth drawing into a tight bow. We'll see about that.

* * * *

Carrie was still wet from her shower—she always took a long, hot shower after a shift at work, even a breakfast one—wrapped in a towel and just sitting on the edge of her bed, when Maureen came back from her morning class.

"Hey Mo?" Carrie asked, using Maureen's nickname and looking up at her friend as she tossed her books on her bed and headed straight for their little refrigerator to grab a soda.

"Hmm?" Maureen pulled the tab on the soda and tossed it into the garbage, already gulping.

"Do you think I'm frigid?"

A sugary spray of Pepsi came out of Maureen's mouth and she gasped, blinking her watery eyes and wiping her face with the back of her hand. "What?"

Carrie frowned, trying to make the quiver in her lower lip disappear. "Do they all really call me the Ice Queen?"

"Oh sweetie..." Maureen put her Pepsi on the dresser and came over to sit next to Carrie on the edge of the bed. "It's just something they say to make themselves feel better...I mean, you're kind of cool with the guys, you know?" She slipped an arm around her friend's waist, resting her dark head against Carrie's shoulder. "They just don't know you like I do."