He woke up several times during the night. Carol talked in her sleep. She mumbled incomprehensible stuff. Once she kicked him. The mumbling might easily be mistaken for moaning. Was she dreaming about the sex God on the Sri Lanka beach? He tried to picture that and then he wondered why she never mentioned the size of his penis. Most women didn’t mention stuff like that. Was that because she was not even giving him the benefit of the doubt? Did she simply assume the guy had a bigger penis than his and did she out of consideration for his feelings leave out the fact that her surfer guy wielded a baseball bat between his legs?

He lay wide awake now, on his back, with one arm propped under his head. She was monopolizing the pillow and most of the covers. Well, it was her bed after all. He could easily move to his own room, but the thought of that made him feel as though his intestines were stichted to this cramped little bed. And damn, he had provided his students with the cheapest, most uncomfortable matrasses. That, or he was getting old.

To forget his sore back he let his mind wonder to her long, slender legs. She was still wearing her tight yellow yeans. Her legs were slender, but not anorexic. Her thighs had that amount of roundness that would make him turn his head on the street if she had been a stranger passing him by. He then wondered if her pubic hair was as honey blonde as her curls. Perhaps, it was black. Then he wondered what her breasts might look like. Always the last thing on his mind. His checking out a girl order went as follows: did she have long hair? Did she have a nice face? Bone structure ok? Then came the legs. Were they round enough? Were her thighs full enough? Were they long enough? If they were x shaped or if her waist was pear or apple shaped he lost interest immediately. Carol had a waspy waist. Oddly, he couldn’t imagine her in a dress. Even with the curls almost all the way down to a rather tiny butt, she had something sort of boyish going on. No, he couldn’t picture her in a dress.

He fought the urge to touch her thighs. He would like to start slightly above the knee and slide slowly all the way up to her groin. Then kiss her in her neck. Grab her breasts and start sucking on her nipples. Could she reach orgasm through penetration alone? Always a question that came back to him when he met a new woman. Only 30 percent could, so the odds were against him. He thought about those first seconds of sliding in her. Those first seconds of penetration that always made him feel as if his entire soul was getting a facelift. Like walking into a warm hostel with a cosy fire place after trudging hundreds of miles through snow and ice haunted by sinister creatures. A break from the oppressive nature of life in general.

He felt his whole body aching to cover her in kisses, to lick her, to slip his tongue into her cunt, to make her come, to disolve in her. How lovely to feel this again. All cramped up with lust. And then came the fear of dissapointment. Again. How he wanted her now, yes, but he knew that with every thrust into her young abdomen he would lose a bit of that lust. Every time he entered her, part of his sexual attraction to her would be gnawed off. His desire would be whittled away. And soon, she’d be just an other woman. Beautiful sure, sexy sure, objectively speaking. But the lust would be gone. There would come a time that she could be prancing around naked with a huge dildo strapped tight in her pussy and his balls wouldn’t ache the way they were killing him now. He wouldn’t even get an erection from looking at her. And to be able to shoot in her, he’d have to imagine all sorts of sordid phantasies built round a harem big enough to people a small island.

He did not want that. He wanted to hang on to the lust. He did not want to become blind to her. He wanted to share sexual arousal with her for twenty, thirty years to come, perhaps for an entire life time. To not sap the sexual tension between them, they simply wouldn’t have sex with each other. Not directly. They would sublimate their sexual tension in living out all that the sexual spectrum had to offer, effective as a tandem. And their bodily sexual attraction would stay where it was strongest. In their imagination.

But would she go along with that sort of plan? And was it at all practical? She’d been drunk when she had seemed to be agree to it. And half asleep.

He’d ask for confirmation as soon as she was awake. With his eyes closed he imagined leading her blindfolded into a room where he had five guys waiting to fuck her. He’d be the director, wouldn’t touch her, but he would make sure she would be an exhausted blob of sexual satisfaction afterwards. The thought of that made his penis twitch with pain. He reached down in his underpants and noticed the top was a little wet. He pulled down the foreskin till it hurt and held it there, administering just the right amount of pain. With his other hand he cupped his balls and pulled them down as well, so that it felt as if his genitals were in a vise, a cage. He kept pulling his balls up and down. Milking, he called it. Imagening how she’d be quivering with pleasure from five fat cocks servicing her. And how sperm would be leaking out of her. And how she’d be on the floor doggy style giving one guy a blow job with an other guy slamming into her from behind. And how she would command him to undergo a seperate scenario of her own, with characters of her own choosing, so that they would fall asleep in each others arms afterwards, when their cast, their little helped had left the building, momentarily freed from the pain of desire, but with their attraction towards each other, not lessened, but intact and heightened.

He pulled his foreskin down hard and with the thought of licking her pussy while she held a rope in her hand that was tied around his balls, dictating the rhythm of his tongue by pulling the rope tighter for faster, or looser for slower, he felt the release of tension, he felt weightless and sorrowless for five seconds. A warm arrow shot up through his spine, his balls pushed their load out and he felt wave and wave of cum flowing through the top of his penis. Because he didn’t move his foreskin up and down and still clutched his balls in a tight vise, it couldn’t shoot very far, so he didn’t need to clean it. It stayed in his underpants. Immediately, a very pleasant slumber caught him. He pulled his foreskin three times, for the after pleasure, pictured her butt and guys thrusting in and out of her and fell asleep again.

To be alarmed by Jimi Hendrix’ Purple haze on her smartphone, less than an hour later. If she noticed the salty smell of dried up sperm in the room, she never mentioned it.

They stared into each other eyes and to their delight they both got a very mischievous grin.