by Jessica Ashe
Anyway, she’s not my type. I can’t screw a girl like her and then show her the door the next morning with nothing more than cab fare and a goodbye smack on the arse. I don’t do relationships, and now would be an awful time to start. I’ve just moved to a new country, and have an entire college full of horny young women to work my way through. Now is definitely not the time for my first ever serious relationship.
“Come on then, where are these hard questions you want to throw at me?”
“You haven’t told any reporters about the switch from rugby to football. At least, not that I could find. How are you finding it so far? I imagine it must be difficult to learn an entirely new sport.”
“It’s a nightmare,” I admit. “One of my teammates back in England, Oliver Cornish, told me that my role in a football team would be basically the same as it was in the rugby team. I figured it would be easy.”
“I take it that’s not been the case?” She takes a second to peel her blouse from her skin and wafts it a couple of times to try and cool down. That might help her cool down, but it only makes me feel hotter.
“Technically it’s correct,” I admit. “I do much the same thing in football that I did in rugby, but I have no idea what’s going on in football.”
“That makes two of us,” she says with a smile.
“Seriously, what’s with all the shouting and weird codes? I’m basically learning a second language. Well, actually a third. I can speak a bit of French.”
I can say hello, goodbye, and at a push I can ask for the bill in a restaurant. I’ll say anything to stop her thinking I’m a dumb jackass.
“You’ll get to grips with it,” she replies, glossing right over the fact that I just said I can speak French. She probably speaks four languages.
“I guess I’ll have to, but I don’t have much time.”
“That brings me to my next question. What’s your plan for cracking into the NFL? You know the vast majority of college football players never make it?”
“The vast majority of college football players aren’t as good as me.” She raises an eyebrow doubtfully. “It’s true. I’m not bragging. Well, okay, I guess I am bragging. But I’m not being cocky. It doesn’t count as cocky if it’s true.”
“How do your new teammates feel about your talents? I imagine some of them are feeling a little threatened right now.”
“Only the stupid ones,” I reply. “And we’re not all stupid. The clever ones realize that they have more chance of making it by playing on a good team that gets a bit of publicity. With me on the team, scouts will actually bother to turn up and watch our games.”
She’s not even slightly impressed. This is just a chore for her. I’m keeping her from an article on something more interesting, like freedom of speech, or other ‘sexy’ constitutional debates. That’s what Americans like to discuss. The Constitution. All I know about the Constitution is that it has stuff about freedom of speech, giving everyone guns, and rules against slavery. That’s one topic where even the dumb jocks know more than me.
“So how is the whole college thing going to work for you?” she asks. “You’ve gone straight into junior year—is that correct?”
“Uh, what’s ‘junior year’?”
Nice one, Charles. Way to sound intelligent.
“The third year out of four.”
“Gotcha. No, I’m in the fourth year.”
“So you’re a senior. How does that work? Do you have to cram an entire four years into one?”
“I fucking hope not. The whole thing is a bit of a farce really, but I couldn’t see any way around it. Apparently, to play football I need to attend college and maintain minimum grades. That should be a formality—the college just wants to tick a few boxes. The whole college football system seems to be an institutionalized mess if you ask me.”
Institutionalized mess? Yeah, that sounds clever. Not entirely sure what it means though….
“Couldn’t agree more,” she replies. “You have no idea how frustrating it is to be in class trying to learn, only to be held back by some idiots who don’t even want to be there.”
“I’ll do my best not to be a distraction, but unfortunately with these arms and this face it’s easier said than done.”
She rolls her eyes, but I detect the tiniest hint of a smile on her face as well. “How are you adapting to life in the US?”
“I’m struggling with the basics. Health insurance, for example. I’ve already spent thousands on premiums, but I still have no idea how it all works. The insurance company gave me a little card, but then I went for a medical and had to pay a bill. What’s the point in having health insurance if you still have to pay to go to a doctor?”
“You’d pay even more if you didn’t have health insurance.”
“Seems stupid to me. And then there’s the food situation.”
“Food?”
“I tried to buy a loaf of bread the other day, but it’s all stuffed with sugar. And everything contains loads of sodium chloride.”
Why say ‘salt’ when you can say the chemical name and sound much more intelligent? Becky doesn’t even bat an eye.
“Try going to the Whole Foods in downtown,” she suggests. “The food there tends to be a little more natural, although it’s more expensive. That’s why students tend to stick to the local places even if it means eating processed food.”
“I don’t mind spending more money if it means shopping at a place that doesn’t sell spray-on cheese. How does that even work?”
“I prefer not to think about it. In general, I don’t dwell on what I put in my body. It’s too depressing.”
I could put something in her body that would cheer her up.
She scowls at me. Did I say that out loud? No, she’d do much more than scowl if I did that. I’m grinning though, so she might have read my mind.
“Why don’t we go shopping together?” I suggest. “Sounds like we both need to improve our diet.”
“No,” she replies without thinking. “That’s wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not? Scared you’ll fall for me?”
“Terrified,” she says sarcastically. “Listen, I’m talking to you for an interview. That’s all. After this, I doubt we never see each other again, and that’s just fine with me.”
“Fine,” I replied, holding up my hands defensively. “Just trying to be polite. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
She grills me some more on making the switch from rugby to football, and it’s clear she doesn’t think I’ll succeed and make it to the pros. She’s wrong. I could play for the pros now. I’m only stuck here because of the stupid NFL rules.
“Have you seen much of your father since you arrived?”
“No, I haven’t seen him yet.”
“You haven’t seen him at all?”
Oops. I really need to be more careful what I say.
“He’s been traveling for business,” I lie. “I’m going to see him at the weekend.”
“Alright, I think I have enough for the article. Thank you for your time Mr. Lewington.”
“It’s been a pleasure Ms….”
“Warner.”
I stand up and walk slowly out of the sauna, giving her time to check out my ass. I hear her pen scrawling notes on the paper, but she’s still probably checking out my ass. She might be a little uptight, but she wouldn’t miss that opportunity.
The locker room’s empty now, thank God, because the second I get inside, the raging boner I’ve been suppressing for the last half an hour suddenly springs to life. It isn’t often I’m grateful for a boner in the men’s locker room, but better now than in front of Becky who already hates me enough as it is.
She said we’d never see each other again. She may be right. We definitely hang in different circles. She works for the college newspaper and probably takes classes like art history and anthropology, while I play for the football team and take whatever classes give me an easy-pass grade.
I dry
myself off while seriously considering taking an art history class, when I remember that I switched the coals off in the sauna. The basketball team will be using the sauna in a few hours, and I can’t imagine they’ll be too pleased to find the place cold.
I’m whistling as I walk back to the sauna. Why am I whistling? I never whistle. I think I’m in a good mood, although it’s been so long, I can’t really remember the feeling.
My whistling comes to an abrupt halt when I hear a woman scream as I enter the sauna. Becky’s still here, and I’m still naked. And hard.
“Shit,” I mutter, as I make a vague attempt to cover up my erection.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Becky screams, turning her head away from me.
“I just came back to…” I came back to turn on the coals. Just say that. Don’t be the dick she expects you to be. “I just came back to show you the full package.”
Dammit Charles.
“You have an erection.”
“I know. You like it? That’s your doing.”
“Is this how things work in England? You just walk up to women naked with an erection and they jump on you?”
I shrugged. “It’s worked for me in the past.”
She doesn’t reply. She just grabs her pen and paper and storms past me, making sure not to come within touching distance of me or my hard cock.
Well that went well. I can look forward to a glorious write-up in the college newspaper.
Sex pest pounces on girl in sauna.
Way to make an impression Charles. Before she just thought I was a dumb jock, now she thinks I’m a fucking moron.
I turn the coals back on and walk back to the locker room. I manage to get dressed and make it outside without offending anyone else. By today’s standards, that’s a minor victory in and of itself.
Becky’s right when she says we probably won’t see each other again. At least, not unless I put in a bit of extra effort. Time to rethink my schedule.
Chapter 3
Rebecca
I can’t stop thinking about dick. I mean the dick. Not the dick’s dick.
Shit, who am I kidding? I’ve been thinking about it all weekend. I barely looked at it for a second, but that was enough to commit the image to my memory. I can picture its long length, thick girth, and throbbing eagerness as it stands to attention in front of me.
It’s been far too long since I’ve had any cock. That’s probably why I found Charles’ member so fascinating. I just hadn’t seen one in a while—I need to get laid. It’s been... well it’s been a long time. Over a year. Until this weekend I haven’t really missed it all that much. I’ve only ever had sex with one man, and the way things had ended with Brian was bad enough to put me off for life. Or at least, I thought it had been.
I don’t even masturbate all that often. I wait until I’m about to explode, and then do the absolute bare minimum to get release. I don’t really enjoy it, although I guess I feel better afterwards. It’s hard to fantasize about sex when your mind insists on dragging the past back up to haunt you. My entire sexual history consists of Brian, and my imagination isn’t creative enough to replace him. That means I’m making myself miserable while trying to make myself happy—not the ideal circumstances for an orgasm.
But now there’s Charles.
On Saturday morning, I can’t get out of bed without rubbing one out, and the relief doesn’t last long. I spend the morning working on my article about Charles, but the angrier I get about our interview, the more I need to touch myself again. In the end, I set myself a rule; I can only masturbate once per two hours of solid work.
I still can’t focus on the article, and I blame Charles completely. The interview had been awful, but I’d expected that. Charles had acted like a cocky, arrogant asshole. Completely true to form for a college footballer. The whole sauna thing had just been icing on the cake.
But as bad as the interview had been, he’d doubled down and made things ten times worse by bursting back into the sauna and waving his huge, hard cock in my face.
Who does that? Seriously, who walks into a sauna in college completely naked and with an erection? Even if he’d thought the place was empty, it still seemed patently absurd.
He’d expected me to be grateful. Like I was supposed to say ‘thank you for showing me your cock, can I suck it now?’ Does that really work? Of course it does. Even in my limited social circle, I know at least five women who are shameless enough to throw themselves at him if he appears naked in front of them.
I couldn’t do that even if I want to. Not after last time with Brian. Most people in my year already think of me as the slut who banged half the football team. The fact that it isn’t true hasn’t stopped the rumor from spreading like wildfire. I can’t just go and jump on the new star footballer in his first week. Not that I want to. Sure, just by being in my head when I’m under the covers, he’s already given me more pleasure than Brian ever had, but thinking about someone while touching myself is a million miles away from actually doing anything in real life. Some fantasies should stay fantasies.
He wants me though. I’m not imagining that, am I? He walked in on me with a rock hard cock—if that’s not a sign of desire then I know even less about men than I thought.
God, I desperately need to get laid. I need to find some average, nerdy guy to undress me, move about a bit, and finish three minutes later. Anything to quench my thirst for a cock I can’t go near.
I hate Charles for doing this to me. I just want to write an article and be done with him, but I can’t get him out of my head. My anger seeps through onto the screen as I type and I realize that the article I’ve spent most of the weekend working on is absolute trash.
I like to consider myself an impartial writer, but as I read a printed draft of my article, I realize that what I’ve written is completely biased. It’s not the words so much as the tone. All my anger and frustration with Charles has appeared throughout the article. Anyone who reads this will immediately know I don’t think too highly of the college’s new star athlete. That might be true, but as someone who wants to be a professional writer, I can’t let that be so obvious in my work.
I have to rewrite it. I realize this at eleven o’clock on Sunday night. I’m mentally exhausted, but I pull up a blank Word document and start from scratch. I work for five minutes before I stop typing and go to bed. I’m not going to sleep—I just need to take care of a bit of business before writing about Charles.
This idiot is really and truly in my head.
My deadline is technically five o’clock Monday afternoon, but so long as I’ve submitted it by nine o’clock Tuesday morning, no one is going to mind. That’s all well and good, but it’s midday on Monday and I’ve barely got three hundred words written. And, just to make matters worse, Professor Fenwick has summoned me to his office.
His email doesn’t give anything away, but they rarely do.
Please come see me at lunch time.
By his standards, that’s rather verbose. Professor Fenwick is one of those old-school professors who you can tell resents the prevalence of email in the workplace. He’s not actually old—I guess about forty-five—but he’s set in his ways and unlikely to change.
He’s a little curmudgeonly, but I like him. He’s done a lot for me in the last three and a bit years. He’s my official ‘mentor’ under the named scholarship program that brought me to this college in the first place. He’s also my boss on the college newspaper, and the one who made me write the story on Charles. Other than that though, he’s a good guy.
“Rebecca,” he says, excited to see me as always. “Come in, come in. Take a seat.”
Both the chairs opposite his desk have piles of books on them. I grab the smallest pile and place them on the floor before taking a seat, while he finishes arranging some papers.
“How was your weekend, sir?” I ask. He hates me calling him ‘sir’ but I’ve never been comfortable calling professors by their first name. It’s either ‘sir�
� or ‘Professor Fenwick,’ no matter how much he protests.
“Good, good. The tomatoes in my garden are looking healthy, although a couple of damn rabbits got in and nibbled away at all my lettuce. What about you?”
“Just working on that article.”
“Article? What article?”
“The article on Charles Lewington you asked me to write.”
“Oh yes, that article. How is it going?”
“It’s due in today, but to be honest I’ve had a tough time with it. I’m afraid I won’t be able to submit it until later tonight. I hope that’s okay?”
“Of course. Having trouble filling the word count?”
“Quite the opposite. There’s plenty to say about him.”
“Good or bad?”
I still haven’t decided that myself. Is it good when a hunky footballer presents himself to you fully naked with a hard cock? It isn’t appropriate, but it sure as hell gave me plenty of good memories to get me through the weekend.
“Good,” I reply. “He seems like a nice guy. I’m sure he will help the college football team win some games this year. Well, I’m not that sure, because I don’t know anything about football, but that’s what’s I’ll say in the article.”
“The interview went okay? I must admit I was a little concerned about sending you in there to meet him. He’s not like the people you typically interview.”
Yeah, no shit. So far, I’ve mainly interviewed members of staff at the college, together with a few moderately successful alumni. All of those interviews have been conducted in formal business attire, and none of them had taken place in a sauna.
“The interview went well,” I reply. “I don’t know a lot about football, but neither does he at the moment. We bonded over that, and he opened up about his family life and the reasons he is here.”
I’m not completely lying. There is some truth to that. I can’t just say that we argued the entire time, and he tried to get me naked more than once. Professor Fenwick will be one of the professors I ask to write a letter of recommendation when, or if, I ever interview for a proper job as a reporter. I need to succeed at all the tasks he gives me, and not just the ones I enjoy.
