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From: "omnivore" <omnivore@mad.scientist.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2000 04:16:53 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Shower Club, Chapter 1:  Bathroom Friends (f f mast voy)
Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2000 06:10:03 -0500
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Shower Club, Chapter 1:  Bathroom Friends (f f mast voy)

by omnivore

Disclaimer:

Of course we need to start off with the usual **LEGAL** stuff about this
being adult material. Leave now if you are too young to read sexually
explicit stuff, 18 in most jurisdictions, some require you to be 21.
Obviously these stories will be about sex, and by the end of it guys and
girls will have been put together in just about every conceivable
combination, so if you are an adult and find this sort of thing offensive,
don't read it, go elsewhere.

Permission is hereby granted to reproduce, archive, and disseminate this
story by any means, as long as the following conditions are met:

1) The entire text of the story is reproduced, archived, or disseminated,
including this disclaimer and the author's name.
2) The story is not reproduced, archived, or disseminated as part of any
commercial product or collection that is distributed for financial gain.
This exclusion applies specifically to, but is not limited to, archives that
require an Adult Check ID number for access to this file. It also excludes
any archive that accepts advertising on any web page visible to a person
attempting to access this file.

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Shower Club, Chapter 1:  Bathroom Friends (f f mast voy)

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I wish I could say that I met Tyler Renfro as a single-serving friend on a
plane, like in the movie, or on a nude beach, like in the book, but the fact
of the matter is that I met her in the bathroom.  Not nearly as cool, I
know, but then again if it had been anywhere else the whole thing might have
gone differently.  I mean, what's the name of this whole thing, anyway, not
to mention the name of this chapter?

Let me get the Penthouse Forum prelude out the way, before we go any
further.  Ahem . . . I'm a sophomore at a prestigious east coast university,
and wasn't very sexually experienced when I got to college, and I definitely
never thought anything like this would ever happen to me.  I turned 19 at
some unspecified point during this story (no point giving you TOO many
clues), and I'd describe myself as good looking, but far from gorgeous.
Dark brown hair, shoulder length, hazel eyes (contact lenses), flat stomach,
belly ring (everyone at my high school did it, what I can say?), 5' 4", 34B
chest with average-sized light brown nipples, pubic hair trimmed but only
moderately, decent butt (nothing to brag about), clear skin, nose maybe a
little too big, no visible tattoos or scars, hymen no longer intact
(probably from tampons, initially, but my  last three boyfriends' dicks
probably didn't do it any good, either), non-disgusting feet (despite
freakish "second-toe-longer-than-big-toe" mutation), short fingernails (only
occasionally chewed), cute smile (everyone says it, even if I don't really
see it), and one mole perched on my right hip, just at the point where you
can push through and feel the point of your pelvic bone.  Got that image
into your head yet?  Step right up close and take a real good look, `cause
you're not getting descriptions this clinical for anyone else in the story.
I want to keep people anonymous, but I don't want to put anyone in disguise,
so I'll just have to be moderate, and maintain deniability.

I had lost my virginity at the age of 17, and slept with my last three
"serious" boyfriends, but it was pretty vanilla sex, and fun but not
terribly exciting.  Oh, and since I know you'll ask, no I hadn't ever done
it before.  And I'd never even given it that much of a second thought,
although I had wondered what it was that got guys so inevitably hot about
it.  I mean, how many Skinemax movies have BOYS having sex together in them,
anyway?  Tyler definitely had an opinion about that, believe me.

So now picture that wavy line effect on the screen, or maybe Superman
spinning the world backwards in order to save Lois Lane, and follow me back
to one fateful day in late February . . . when I was first really introduced
to Tyler Renfro.

------------------------------------------------

It was a Tuesday night.  For some reason I remember that clearly.  Working
on some stupid paper had kept me up past 3, and I headed for the shower
through completely abandoned, silent hallways.  One of the disadvantages of
the majestic gothic dorms we live in is that sometimes there isn't a girls'
bathroom on your floor, and I was one of the unlucky ones, but I didn't mind
walking the halls in my robe, or even occasionally in a towel, when it was
this quiet.  In the mornings it feels like a train station, sometimes, and
every guy seems to be trying to peek in your robe, or use his puny mind ray
to make your towel fall, which is why I usually showered at night.

When I got to the bathroom, it was equally deserted, and after taking a
quick pee, I headed for the last shower stall.  Some idiot friend of mine
once sent me this little, marginally funny .exe file about "How to Choose
the Correct Urinal," and I'd say that shower etiquette in a 5-shower college
bathroom is about the same.  The first one in always takes the far end
stall, The next one takes the stall at the near end.  The third takes the
one dead in the middle, of course, and the next two in are left to pick one
of the remaining "surrounded" spots, or if they're really uptight they might
even wait a really long time before they finish their "pre-shower
preparations."  I didn't really care one way or the other, but I knew enough
to follow the rules, even if there didn't seem to be anyone else awake in
the entire entryway.

The steaming hot water was exactly what I needed to drive away all thoughts
of gender-related themes in classic fiction or social stratification or the
history of Arab rule in Spain or whatever the hell it was I was writing
about that evening.  I washed my hair, and then just sort of soaked for a
while, or as close as you can get in a bathtub-less world, anyway, leaning
against the wall and letting the water just pour over me.  I slowly tried to
let every muscle in my body relax, from my toes up to my head, turning my
face up to let the water rush past me.

One of the advantages of the number-keyed locks on the bathroom doors is
that they make a lot of noise, and the design of the bathroom makes it
really easy to hear someone coming long before they could . . . well, catch
you at anything.  You know what I mean.  I had avoided boys completely since
arriving at school (a combination of lingering feelings for my summer
boyfriend, annoyance at my desperate, idiot classmates, and disdain for the
cocky upperclassmen who thought they had it made with the chicks just
because they could get them into parties) and had taken advantage of the
shower room's basic "safety" more than a few times.  After all, how am I
supposed to play with myself with my roommate in the room, thank you very
much?

On the Tuesday in question, I really felt like I deserved a good orgasm,
having worked my ass off for the last three nights in a row.  My roommate,
generally a pretty tolerable person, had really been getting on my nerves,
and if she hadn't been sleeping over in her boyfriend's single room two out
of every three nights since Orientation Week, we would probably have been at
each other's throats.  I'd been rejected from the singing groups I'd tried
out for, even though I knew I'd been a lot better than when I'd done it
first semester, and had made two separate callbacks.  Poor, poor pitiful me.
But a good wank could solve all of that (the word "wank" is one of the
greatest gifts the English have given the world, by the way), or at least
make it MUCH less important for a moment.

Just to be sure I was alone, I shut off all the water and just stood there
for a second, listening.  Nothing.

I turned the water back on, got it to that perfect, hot but not too hot
temperature, and started by massaging my small, firm breasts, gently
tweaking and rubbing the nipples.  While my left hand kept playing with my
nipples, I reached down between my legs with my right hand, and lightly
touched my clit.  There was no time for extensive foreplay in a "shower
massage," as I liked to think of them.  I leaned back against the tile wall
of the show, re-adjusted the shower head so that it was back on me, and
started rubbing with intensity and vigor.  Occasionally I'd slip a finger or
two up inside me, but the big pop is really from going straight for the
center of things, and I focused all of my attention on that little nubbin.
Eventually I was leaned against the back of the shower, head down, both
hands working furiously, doing intricate little dances of fingers and thumbs
and musical patterns and combinations, breathing faster and faster and
faster, eyes tightly closed, and still with ears straining for the slightest
sound of someone coming through the door.  I was on the top of the roller
coaster hill, just waiting for that final click when the screaming starts,
when for some reason, maybe a subtle shift in the light against my closed
eyelids, I looked up.  And I saw her.

There was a girl looking at me through the gap between the shower curtain
and the shower wall, and she was looking me right in the eye, not
embarrassed at all, but my fingers couldn't stop, and suddenly the click
came, and it was a hill, a loop and a corkscrew, followed by a few more
hills, with everyone in every car screaming the entire way, with fireworks
exploding in the beautiful dark blue sky and a brass band waiting on the
platform.  Here I was, eye to eye with a person I hardly knew, and I was
having the orgasm of my life, and as I was slowly shuddering to a stop, she
just stared at me, and she smiled.  And then she walked away.

Oh my god.  Oh my god.  Oh my god.  What the fuck?!  All I could do was lean
up against the wall, catching my breath, totally stunned, my mind racing
furiously, but incoherently.  I heard her enter the shower stall immediately
to my left.

Next to mine.

A blatant violation of the rules.

I heard the shower start, and wondered what I should think about what had ju
st happened.  Should I say something to her?  Would she keep it a secret?  I
may not have known her, but I knew who she was.  Her name was Tyler Renfro
and her dad was some kind of millionaire, but that was true of so many of my
spoiled classmates that it didn't seem remarkable at the time..  What was
remarkable was her face . . .. oh, and her figure . . . and, oh right, her
incredible, naturally red hair.  In fact, she was fairly universally
acknowledged to be the most beautiful girl in our college, and those in the
know said she was in the top five, campus-wide.  Her breasts were large, her
skin was white and perfect, her eyes were a green so brilliant they looked
like they glowed.  And she had seen me masturbating.

Some columnist recently wrote a piece in our campus paper describing
different "classes" of friend, and the only one I thought had any real
validity was the "bathroom friend." A bathroom friend is someone that you
know enough to make chit chat with in front of the mirrors in the bathroom,
but anywhere else on campus you'll just acknowledge with a wave or a raised
eyebrow and a nod.  For a good portion of the year, you may not even know
their name.  As far as I was concerned, Tyler was definitely a bathroom
friend, but beyond a few five-minute discussions of parties and classes and
politics, I didn't think I'd ever really talked to her.  She definitely hung
out with a different crowd than I did outside those tiled walls.

I was still a little frazzled, both from the orgasm and the surprise, and no
matter how much I tossed it around in my mind, I couldn't decide if she was
the type to talk or not.  After a few minutes of dithering, I came to the
conclusion that there was really nothing I could do about it, and that if I
was lucky she'd be just as embarrassed about watching me as I was about
being watched.  If that was the case, she'd never even acknowledge that it
had happened.  I crossed my fingers and repeated it to myself silently:  She
won't tell.  She won't tell.  She won't tell.  I quickly finished my shower,
wrapped myself in my towel, grabbed up my stuff, and got set to hustle out
of the bathroom before there could be any kind of confrontation in front the
mirrors, or something.

But as soon as I stepped out past the curtain from my stall, I heard
something.  It was a low, growling, quiet moan, and it had clearly come from
the stall Tyler was in.  I started to walk past, and the curtain was half
open, so how could I help seeing her there.  Totally naked, one hand busy
between her legs and the other stretched behind her, apparently playing with
her asshole.  Her breasts, which I'd never seen before, were incredible:
large but still totally firm, with big, light pink nipples that were clearly
erect.  She was easily as "in the moment" as I had been a few minutes
before, just inches from the peak, but there was one crucial difference.

She was looking right at me.  Staring.  Smiling, even as her legs started
twitching and her breath started her catch.  Her eyes were locked directly
on mine, and suddenly a lot of new definitions for the term "bathroom
friend" started racing through my head.

After about ten seconds, I ran.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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