The leather of his driver's seat still carries the faint tang of sweat and spilled beer from the night before, and Wendel runs his thumb along the steering wheel as he parks his sedan near the freshman dorms.
He remembers how Mannie mounted him, her knees knocking against the gear shift as he works her jeans down past her hips, how she bites his shoulder to muffle the sounds she can't control.
Nineteen and desperate, both of them, fucking like the car might disappear around them if they stop moving.
He has her bent over the centre console, her cheek pressed against the passenger seat.
His hands on her arse, her tight wet pussy.
Great screw.
Who next?
Pam in Bio?
He's been working angles for three weeks now.
Cute virgin. The kind of girl you marry young.
The hallway smells of carpet cleaner.
He sees Mannie before she sees him.
She's standing outside room 214, talking to that girl with purple hair, her backpack hanging off one shoulder.
She's wearing the same jeans from last night, he notices, or ones so similar they might as well be.
God, her arse looks great.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot.
Wendel lifts his hand in a casual wave, a polite greeting.
Nothing hopeful.
Still, the replay in his mind is great.
The pitch of her voice, a pure church-choir note, when she screeched "Fuck! I'm coming! Yes, I'm cumming! Fuck! Fuck! Arragghh!" last night.
Mannie sees him. Her whole body goes still for one heartbeat, two, and then she's moving, crossing the hallway in three quick strides that make her backpack swing.
The girl with purple hair calls something after her, but Mannie doesn't answer.
She's looking at Wendel's mouth, at his hands, at the place where his t-shirt meets his belt.
"Hey," he starts, "last night—"
She doesn't let him finish. Her hand closes around his belt buckle, metal warming against her palm, and she pulls.
Not hard, but definite, the kind of tug that moves his whole body a step toward her.
"Screw last night. There's only now."
The fire door opens with a push bar that squeaks, and the stairwell beyond is concrete and metal railings, emergency lighting that casts everything in pale green.
The smell is different here—dust and concrete.
Mannie lets the door fall shut behind them and the hallway noise cuts off, replaced by the hollow echo of their breathing.
She pushes him against the wall beside the second-floor window, her mouth finding his with a sensual precision, like she's been thinking about this since she woke up.
Her hands work at his belt, dropping his dacks and boxers like a pro.
Wendel is hard.
Stiff as the metal rail.
Mannie is a tug, Princess.
She has the grip; she has her own spit as lube.
Hand-job precision.
The strokes, the strokes, the stoking, strokes.
Wendel's hips jerk.
She squeezes his cock harder.
Kisses his neck, his jaw, his earlobe.
"Fuck you," he breathes.
"That's the plan." She says.
Her denim and thong pool on concrete.
Her legs spread like a bio specimen.
Wendel's fingers ply the folds of her juicy shaved mound.
Mannie's soaked, absolutely fucking soaked.
When he presses two fingers inside her, she makes those sounds that echo like an organ through a Cathedral.
"Oohh! Ah! Ahh! Mmm, mmm, mmm."
A perfect girly hymn of appreciation.
Or blunt enjoyment of fingers jagging and squelching in a tight, tight little hole.
"Harder," she urges.
She knows the commandments of sex.
He works her with his fingers, digging, curling them to find the spot that makes her breath hitch, watching her face for the tell—there, when her eyes flutter closed, when her lower lip catches between her teeth.
She's grinding against his hand now, shameless.
"Uhh! Uhh!"
She's a pocket rocket, no time to waste.
Her leg raised; she guides his meat package into her snatch.
A heated sausage between two split white fresh folds.
Mutual groans echo in the stairwell.
He sets a rhythm, hands gripping her anywhere, to stop them from falling.
She locks her arms and legs around his body.
Her arse is left to the mercy of a concrete wall as her pussy wraps a stiff like a vice.
"My clit, you prick," she gasps.
Wendel hits her magic dot. Rubs and rubs over her cowl.
He thrusts.
She grinds.
Mannie makes a sound like she's breaking, her whole body going rigid, and then she's coming, muscles spasming around his cock in waves that pull him deeper.
"Fugh! Rragghh!"
He doesn't last much longer.
Well, her folds ooze cream like a bun.
She gets the full, long, stroked injection.
Hearts beat wild as genitals relax.
She dresses fast.
Efficient like in his car last night.
He's buckling his belt as she blows a kiss and disappears back into the hallway.
He knows he'll end up marrying a girl like Pam after graduation.
In a life flash: on a porch in a rocking chair.
The bird's tweet, "Mannie, Mannie," sounds like it.
Pam emerges from the hallway with her walking stick, "Come in, sweetie, teatime."