Chapter 4: Just a friend
The knock on his door two nights later was too assertive for a delivery guy. Ethan opened it to find Donna, a friend from his drawing class, holding a bottle of vodka like a trophy. Her smile was wide, genuine.
“Heard you got dumped,” she said, brushing past him into the dorm room. “Figured you could use this.”
Donna was all bright energy—pink-tipped hair, a nose ring, a laugh that filled spaces. They’d shared cigarettes outside the art building, complained about professors. She was a friend. Just a friend.
“It wasn’t a dump. It was a mutual…” he trailed off. “Thanks.”
“Mutual, my ass.” She plopped onto his unmade bed, found two coffee mugs on his desk, and poured generous slugs of vodka. “Serena’s a narcissist. Here. Drink.”
They drank. The vodka burned, but the warmth was welcome. Donna talked about her terrible date, a bad critique, the absurdity of their final project. She made him laugh. It felt normal. Human. She shifted closer on the bed as she spoke, her knee touching his.
“I always liked you, you know,” she said, her voice dropping into a more confidential tone. The bottle was half empty. “Even when you were with her. You’re not like other guys. You’re… gentle.”
A warning bell, faint and fuzzy through the alcohol, chimed in his head. “Donna…”
“No, it’s true.” She took his mug, set both aside. Her eyes were bright, intent. “You listen. You pay attention.” She leaned in and kissed him.
Her lips were soft, tasted of vodka and cherry gloss. It was nice. Pleasant. But it was just lips, a closed mouth. He froze, unsure. When she pulled back, she was smiling. “See? Nice.”
“I… I think we’re drunk,” he managed.
“We are. So what?” She kissed him again, this time parting her lips. Her tongue slid against his. Her hand came up to cradle his jaw. It was insistent, but not demanding. An invitation. The warmth in his stomach spread, blurred his thoughts. He hadn’t been touched with anything resembling affection in months. His body responded before his mind could form a protest. He kissed her back.
It felt good to be wanted, even if the wiring was all wrong.
Donna made a satisfied sound and pushed him gently back onto the bed, climbing over to straddle his hips. She ground down against him, and he was hard. Of course he was. It was mechanical now. She broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and looked down at him with a triumphant gleam.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew you wanted this too.”
Her hands went to the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it off in one swift motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were small, with pale pink nipples already peaked. She took his hands and placed them on her. “Touch me, Ethan.”
He did. He cupped her, thumbed her nipples. She arched into his touch, moaning. It was all moving too fast, a train he hadn’t fully consented to board but was now speeding down a familiar track.
She leaned down, kissing him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth. Then she began to move downward, kissing his neck, his chest, her hands tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. He lifted his hips, a conditioned response, and she pulled them and his boxers down in one rough yank. His cock sprang free, thick and aching.
Donna looked at it, bit her lip. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she murmured. But instead of taking him in her mouth, instead of climbing onto him, she shifted her weight. She moved backwards, straddling his chest, and then she pushed herself up on her knees. She was still wearing her soft cotton shorts. She hovered over his face.
The position was a cold shock. The blur of alcohol evaporated.
“Donna, what are you doing?”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, her expression one of playful confusion. “What does it look like? I want you to eat me out. I’m soaked just thinking about it.”
The words landed like stones in his gut. “I don’t… I’m not sure…”
“Oh, come on,” she said, her laugh tinged with impatience. She reached back and tugged her shorts and underwear to the side, exposing herself to him. The pink, glistening flesh was inches from his mouth. The scent, musky and sweet, filled his nostrils. “Everybody knows you love it. It’s your thing.”
The room tilted. “My… thing?”
“Yeah. Serena told, like, everyone. How you’d do it for hours. How you lived for it.” She wiggled her hips, an impatient gesture. “And I heard about you and Elena the other night. So don’t be shy. Come on. Taste me. I need it.”
Everybody knows. The phrase echoed, hollowing him out. It wasn’t a secret skill or an intimate preference. It was a reputation. A public fact. He was the guy who ate pussy. That was his function.
A cold numbness spread from his core. He looked up at her, at the expectant curve of her body, the wet evidence of her desire. The part of him that wanted to refuse, to shout that he was more than this, was small and very far away. It was drowned out by a louder, more crushing logic: Why fight it? This is what you are. This is what they all see.
The fight left him in a long, silent exhale.
He lifted his head from the pillow and closed the gap.
The moment his tongue made contact, Donna gasped and sank down, her weight settling on his face. “Yes! Oh, fuck yes! Just like that!”
He was buried. Her taste, her smell, the crushing pressure of her thighs against his temples—it was all-consuming. He worked on autopilot, his mind detaching, floating somewhere near the ceiling as his body performed the task. Lick, swirl, suck. He found her rhythm and matched it. Her moans were louder, more guttural than Elena’s. She rocked against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, but holding on.
“You’re so fucking good at this,” she panted. “God, no wonder they talk. Your tongue is magic. Eat me. Eat my fucking pussy.”
He closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was a relief. He was just a tool, a skilled implement. There was a strange, bleak peace in that. No performance anxiety, no fear of disappointment. He simply had to execute.
Donna’s movements became jagged, frantic. “I’m gonna come. Don’t stop. Make me come on your face.”
He didn’t stop. He drove her toward it with a focused, clinical precision. Her thighs clenched, a tremor ran through her, and she let out a sharp, broken cry as her orgasm hit. Wetness flooded his mouth and chin. He swallowed what he could, let the rest drip down his neck. She ground herself against him through the pulsations, milking the sensation, until she finally collapsed sideways, rolling off him onto the bed.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling. His face was wet. His dick was still painfully hard, jutting upward, ignored.
Donna breathed heavily beside him for a full minute. Then she propped herself up on an elbow, looking at him with a sated, dazed smile. She reached out and wiped a streak of her wetness from his cheek with her thumb.
“Jesus, Ethan,” she breathed, her voice full of awe. “That was… fucking incredible.” She leaned over and gave him a quick, tasting kiss on the lips. Then she glanced down at his erection.
Then she glanced down at his erection. A sly, possessive smile touched her lips. "Can't leave you like that, can I?" she murmured, her voice still husky.
Her hand, slick with her own moisture, closed around his shaft. He flinched at the sudden, rough contact. She began to stroke him, her grip too tight, her rhythm impatient and erratic.
It was purely functional, a gesture of obligation rather than passion. He felt his body tense, a familiar coil tightening in his gut as she worked him. Her thumb swiped over the head, spreading the bead of precum.
"Feel good?" she asked, not really waiting for an answer. Her eyes were on his face, watching his reactions like a curious scientist. He gave a short, tight nod, his jaw clenched. The pleasure was sharp, insistent, a biological response he couldn't suppress.
Just as the sensation began to crest, as his hips started to lift involuntarily toward her fist, she stopped. Her hand released him completely. The sudden absence was a physical shock, a jarring interruption that left him throbbing and exposed.
"Not yet," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She shifted her body, lying back fully on the bed amidst his rumpled sheets. She parted her thighs, a deliberate and open invitation. The dark, soft curls of her pubic hair were damp and matted from his mouth and her own release.
She hooked her fingers into the flesh of her inner lips, spreading herself wide. The pink, swollen flesh glistened under the weak light of his dorm room lamp. "Come here," she commanded softly, patting the space between her legs with her other hand. "I'm ready for more. I want your tongue again, deeper this time."
Ethan stared at the explicit display, at the raw, open center of her. The ache in his own groin was a dull, ignored throb. He moved, his body obeying the summons before his mind could form a coherent thought. He knelt between her legs, the scent of her and his own saliva thick in the air.
She didn't wait for him to begin. She reached up, her fingers tangling in his messy brown hair, and guided his head down with firm, undeniable pressure. "Right there," she whispered, pushing his face into her. "Lick me like you mean it. Get in deep."
His world narrowed to the heat and salt and musk of her. He plunged his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, as her hips lifted off the bed to meet each thrust. She moaned, a long, low sound of pure gratification. "Yeah. That's your fucking job, isn't it? To eat pussy. You're so good at your job."
The words, meant to be filthy encouragement, solidified the cold truth in his gut. He served a function. He closed his eyes and disappeared into the wet, dark work of it.