Blythe had been concerned about her new roommate for a few weeks now.
Arriving at college had been the thrill and ambition of her lifetime. A naturally gifted student who lived and died by her teacher’s praise, she had made being accepted into a top-tier all-girl’s school her number one priority since she started high school. She had poured all her energy and considerable intellect into school, be it academics, athletics, or her assorted extra-curriculars. A track star and class president, her 4.2 GPA was almost the icing on the cake. Bryn College gave her a full ride, and she had arrived there this fall brimming with ambition and excitement.
She also came to school vowing not to forget her roots and her upbringing. She came from a loving but strict Mormon family. While her classmates in high school were experimenting with alcohol, drugs, and dress-code violations, she was diligent about her studies and her community service projects. Her limited social time was spent at church functions or youth group. Her white father was an elder in the Church, and her Korean mother was devoted to his career and comfort. She taught Blythe to dress fashionably but modestly, to stay focused on her duties to others, and to delay gratification in pursuit of a higher goal.
Blythe respected her upbringing, and was grateful to her parents and the Mormon community who shaped her outlook and her values. While she had always been fond of her high school classmates, she vaguely pitied them, and did not regret the “experiences” she missed staying home on Friday nights to give free tutoring. Their lifestyle never tempted her, and her hard work had paid off in dividends.
Bryn College, she knew, would be where would finally be able to enjoy the company of her intellectual and social equals. Well-bred women, the brightest of the bright, who cared more about a Tchaikovsky recital or discussing Balzac than the next kegger.
So she tried to forestall her disappointment when she was introduced to the fellow freshman she would be sharing her dorm with. Miranda was shorter than Blythe’s five feet seven inches, and where Blythe was slender, with long, delicately tapered legs, Miranda was thick and curvy. Her bleach-blonde hair clashed with her dark eyebrows, sculpted to accentuate their thickness. She was most often in cut-off mom jeans that accentuated the full heft of her ass, contrasting it with her slim little stomach. And her heavy, supple breasts hung low under her usual crop-top. She apparently didn’t own a bra, and those crop tops rarely hid the fact that she had both of her nipples pierced with large steel bars. She shaved her legs, but let her armpit hair grow thick; the effect was a raw and primal beauty, and Blythe interpreted it as an announcement of animal lust to the entire world.
Miranda’s self-presentation couldn’t have been more different from that of Blythe, who wore tasteful jumpsuits, or billowing skirts with cute but conservative flats. She avoided shorts, and the closest she ever got to revealing her lithe figure might be a pair of flared pants paired with a form-fitting tank top. She brushed her hair ever morning and evening, moisturized, shaved her body whether anyone would see it or not. Being presentable was of enormous importance to Blythe, as it was to her mother and all of the women at her church. Elegance and taste communicated something far more powerful than lasciviousness and immodesty. Her appearance marked her of a certain caste, and of a certain worth. She projected that worth to the world and it gave her power. She wanted to be admired, but never lusted over. It’s why Miranda’s shameless display of her body, like an open invitation, aroused both shock and pity in her.
And as became quite clear in the coming weeks, many were taking up that open invitation. Every weekend night, and often on weeknights, Blythe would return from the library or a sorority meeting or student government mixer and find her dorm room locked. She’d knock politely, jiggle the handle, even pound. She would be ignored, and have to wait in the hall or in the adjacent dorm room of a fellow student before finally hearing her door unlock and a man slink out. At first it was never the same man twice, and they ran the gamut in appearance and body type. Later though, Blythe was almost certain it was the same one. She never got a real look at him – he moved quickly, looking down with a hood up, clearly taking great pains to conceal himself. But he was tall, with a strong gait and a powerful build.
Miranda, for her part, was unapologetic.
“This is what I came to college for! I worked my ass off in high school, and now I’m here, my dream school, with my parents off my back and a place to myself.”
“Except that you don’t have a place to yourself, actually,” Blythe would reply with pointed annoyance. “You’re keeping me from using my room, locking me out when I’m tired and exhausted. It’s incredibly disrespectful and I would really like it to end.”
To that, Miranda would always laugh it off and either return to bed or go out for the night. And that was only on the few instances Blythe found the courage to say anything about it at all. That hesitance was quite unlike her – she confident and extroverted, and usually never thought twice about speaking her mind in a kind but direct way. But this…to be honest, the subject embarrassed her. She found herself to speak explicitly about what Miranda was doing in their dorm room with obviously strange men. She kept expecting Miranda to be embarrassed, to sheepishly avoid the topic, to take greater paints to hide her evening activities. But she exulted in them! She was proud of being able to attract these men, to “fuck the life out of them,” as she said to Blythe, who visibly blushed and looked away every time. Blythe learned to ignore Miranda’s ongoing escapades entirely, not mentioning them even after finally walking into the dorm after an hour of waiting. But it slowly grated on her, for reasons more inscrutable than inconvenience.
Otherwise, she thrived in the college environment, and had no shortage of activities to keep her busy. She studied hard and often, became involved in campus LDS life, went to lectures and readings and concertinas. She quickly found the community of educated, intelligent women who appreciated art, music, and philosophy, and often went with these girls to various campus events.
By far her favorite were the lectures given by Professor Tern, twice a month. An adjunct member of the History faculty, seemingly only in his late thirties, he read in a small amphitheater on topics that addressed contemporary problems through a historical lens. He talked about the importance of traditional values, even in the face of new and evolving ideas about gender, religion, race, and material wealth. He wasn’t conservative, and was eager to discuss new critical ideas, but his lectures always returned to the idea that there was nothing new under the sun, and that the questions we face today have all been approached before. He stressed the importance of looking at the past in order to divine the path forward.
He also had bright green eyes and thick black hair, with broad shoulders and an ever-present stubble. Blythe hung on his every word.
She was lucky enough to be in his Freshman Seminar class, and basked in the individualized attention this earned her. He seemed impressed with her, even in a class full of bright minds. He wrote long comments on the papers she submitted, and sometimes they would talk long after class in his office. She had gotten in the habit of bringing him baked goods in order to initiate and prolong these talks.
On one such meeting, after an early afternoon class, she somehow found herself spilling her heart out to him about the situation with Miranda.
“She just doesn’t seem to care about school at all! School, other people who share her space, her own dignity… I just mean, she just seems so content to be a walking sex object!”
“A lot of girls find their first taste of freedom when they arrive at college, Blythe,” Tern replied. “They finally get a chance to escape a repressive environment, and they go a little wild. It’s something I’ve seen a lot of. I promise you she’ll grow out of it.”
“I grew up in the LDS for gosh sake!” Blythe exclaimed in frustration. “With an Asian mom to boot! I could barely go out, I studied and tutored and volunteered! You don’t see me going crazy now that I’m at college.”
“Well, Blythe, you have a unique maturity and a heightened perspective. It’s not fair to judge Miranda by your own standards; she’s not nearly the same calibre of woman you are,” Professor Tern replied kindly.
“I…thanks, Professor,” stammered Blythe, feeling the heat rise through her cheeks and ears and praying her couldn’t see how he’d made her blush.”
“And I promise you, Blythe. Miranda may be getting a lot of attention, male attention…but a real man, they don’t want that. Not for more than a while. These men will pass through her life. You have nothing to be envious over.” Dr. Tern said, his gorgeous green eyes looking at her with a calm understanding.
“I…what? Jealous? Of her? I…that’s not what upsets me about her, sir. I just am frustrated by her, and above all, I pity her, ” Blythe responded.
“Of course,” replied Dr. Tern. “Well, my next class is in fifteen and I have to prepare. Again, excellent work on your thesis submission, Blythe. Your work remains incredible.”
Glowing with pride, Blythe walked out of his office and to her dormitory to study. She had her own little nook with a desk and her laptop, tucked away from view from the rest of the room. She had recently gotten the inspiration to block off her small nice with an oriental divider, which gave her a good amount of extra privacy from Miranda (She was still shy about changing in front of another woman, especially one with the heavy, firm curves Miranda’s body flaunted effortlessly). Sitting down, she was completely invisible from view from the rest of the room. It was there she sat late into the early evening, lost in her studies and the latent giddy swell Professor Tern’s praise had given her.
The abrupt opening of the door snapped her out of her reverie. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Miranda. And this time, Blythe was caught on the wrong side of the door. A man’s authoritative voice and heavy step immediately made Blythe realize what was she was about to be caught in the middle of. The thought of having to announce herself filled her with dread mingled with the distinct tang of shame. Their eyes on her, smirking, as she made a prudish exit, blushing down to her shoulders.
Her shoulders! “Oh drat!” Blythe whispered to herself. She was in nothing but her slip! She had barely noticed that she had shrugged her skirt and blouse off in the long hours of day dreaming and studying.
She was trapped. She had no choice but to stay, plug in her headphones, and ignore them, while praying neither looked behind the room divider. She was just trying to imagine what she would do after that when it started.
“Ohh my god, daddy, take me, I need it, I neeed it,” Miranda whined in a little-girl voice.
“I know what you need, greedy girl. Bend over for your daddy, now, show me that thick ass.”
“It’s your ass daddy. I show it off all day but it belongs to you.”
“That’s fucking right it belongs to me. And you have the marks to prove it, don’t you kitten?” the strange man said with a soothing authority.
“Fuck yes I do,” Miranda responded with a childish pride. “Daddy marks me up to show everyone who owns me.”
“‘Daddy’? Marks? What in God’s name has Miranda gotten herself into?” Blythe thought, horrified.
Despite herself, againt her every intention, she looked through the narrow cracks of the divider. From that level, seated in her desk chair, she could only see the body of the man, toned and lithe, tan and covered in coarse hair. He was disrobed, and his cock was swollen stiff. Blythe had to cover her mouth not to audibly gasp at the sight of it. She had never seen one in person, and her stomach seemed to drop. A shiver ran up her spine, and she stared, transfixed.
But then the man stepped back, and Blythe’s jaw hit the floor. There was Miranda, naked and on all fours on her bed, her colossal ass raised proudly up. It was covered in red welts in the shape of handprints. As Blythe processed the image in front of her, the man’s hand came clapping down against Miranda’s ass cheek with a resounding crack. Blythe inhaled sharply, but Miranda yelped gleefully and moaned in pleasure.
“That’s your fucking ass, daddy,” she told the man.
“That’s right, kitten. Every inch of you belongs to me, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. This body is yours. Please come take it, daddy,” she panted.
He wordlessly obliged, grabbing Miranda by her hair and yanking her head back, resulting in another delighted yelp. As Blythe watched, he led her around by the hair so that she could see Miranda’s face, mere feet away. She felt the thrill of fear at the thought of being seen, but Miranda made no indication she could see Blythe at all. And as the man stood behind her, Blythe saw Miranda’s eyes roll back in pleasure, her mouth lolling open.
“Oh, fuckk, Daddy. God I love the way you stretch me out. I love how you fill this little pussy up,” she mewled.
The man grunted as he pushed himself deeper into Miranda’s body, and even facing her, Blythe could see Miranda’s thick ass ripple with every thrust, high over her head.
“God, it’s like you get tighter every time I come over here to stretch you out,” the man grunted.
“You like how tight I am, Daddy? Do you like how this young pussy clings to the shaft of your thick cock?” Miranda asked, pleased with herself.
“It’s so good, little kitten. The tightest I ever had,” he replied.
“That’s because it’s so young. I turned 18 three months ago. Three months ago, I was in high school. You’re fucking fresh, teen highschooler pussy. You like it, Daddy?”
“God yes. Better than I ever had. And it’s all mine,” the man said with a groan.
Blythe watched, shivering, as the man slid his hand around Miranda’s throat, and her tongue slipped out, panting like she was in heat. Blythe had never seen anything close to something like it, had never experienced anything more than a chaste kiss from her escort to the LDS Senior Dance. Beneath the thin sheer fabric of her slip, Blythe felt her nipples stiff to the point of being sore. Without thinking, hypnotized by the show Miranda and this strange man was giving her, Blythe started pinching and rubbing her tender nipples, and let out a low moan when her body responded to the touch. She felt herself grow warm between her thighs, her pussy (she had never called it that, never even thought it, but was calling it that now), gently soaking her cotton blue panties.
Blythe moved like someone hypnotized, rubbing herself through her panties while staring at Miranda as the man held her still by her throat and fucked her from behind, punctuating his thrusts by making her ass ripple with the occasional cracking palm. Blythe had never felt sensations in her body like this before, never felt the painful throb in her clit that compelled her to rub it while pinching her tiny brown nipples, until tonight.
Meanwhile, Miranda was lowing and pleading, her face twisted in stupefied happiness. She was grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as her body filled with wave after wave of overpowering pleasure.
“That’s your pussy, Daddy. You own it. Take it Daddy, take it, take it!” she repeated over and over like a mantra. There was desperation in her voice, as well as the deep relief of someone who had completely relinquished any control over their body.
The man released her hair and grabbed her by the shoulders, thrusting harder now, beginning to growl and swear under his breath.
“Tell me what you are. Tell me who owns you,” he demanded.
“I’m your slut, Daddy. I’m your little teenage whore. I’m your nasty little bitch. I’m your slut, I’m your slut, I’m your – ”
“Slut,”, Blythe uttered under her breath, as the warmth of her first orgasm seeped into her body. She was panting, full of shame for herself and disgusted pity for Miranda. But most of all, she felt a the deep satisfaction of someone once ravenous after a meal. As she came, Miranda screamed, and the man himself bellowed, emptying himself into Miranda’s nubile young body.
Miranda lay there in a panting heap, too rattled by orgasm to move. The man dismounted her and moved into Blythe’s sight. And when she saw his face, her contentment and shame and fuzzy lust mixed with another emotion: jealousy. The man who had just fucked Miranda within an inch of her life was Professor Tern.
Blythe could hardly believe her eyes. Her polite, worldly, gentleman professor. The man who just comforted her with his assurance that young girls who acted how Miranda acted would never get the finer things in life that she, Blythe, was entitled to. He was the man who had been coming to her room for weeks. Her very own bedroom. And fucking Miranda like…Blythe had never imagined such a fucking possible.
She seethed with envy and rage and greed. To her surprise and mild disgust, she began touching herself again while she seethed, barely even noticing. While Miranda lay there, oblivious to the world, Professor Tern started cleaning himself up. He put on his clothes and belted his pants. He gently stroked Miranda’s hair and walked towards the door.
But before he left, he stopped. Pausing by Blythe’s dresser, he pulled open the top drawer. Blythe flushed again, despite herself, with dread. Her panty drawer. Professor Tern selected a lacy jade green pair, sniffed it deeply, and put it in his pocket before walking out the door.
While she waited for Miranda to collect herself and go to the shower, Blythe realized what it meant. She had a chance. And whatever Miranda did for this man (and she suspected she had seen it all), Blythe knew she could do better. She just needed a plan.