The Grass Is Always Greener

For about a year now, Megan Brandt had thought she would end up married to her boyfriend Cole Harrington. They had been on that what she would have described as "that path" - had met at a school dance and fallen in love, dated, visited and vacationed with each others' families, planned their futures together, and fucked - lots.

This morning though, sitting naked, wrapped only in a white sheet, and in a bed that was decidedly not Cole's, the college senior saw her future not as a path, but as a constellation of cosmic stepping stones arrayed in front of her, an infinite universe of planets to visit, each one a decision, an experience, and each step no more right than wrong on her dance across the galaxy of fate and time.

Of course, it could all work out with Cole. She could still picture one version of her future self with him, baby on hip, buying a home, in love, but now that crystal vision had been shattered into a million versions of future Megans swirling across her mind. Here was one where she wore leather, rode a Harley and smoked cigarettes, now one where she was a hippy chick, tousled hair, big sunglasses and a short rainbow dress, another one where she sunbathed in a bikini poolside at a French villa, still another where she handled a kalashnikov and wore black-panther-esque military clothing. She smiled slightly as her visions continued to orbit her brain.

She leaned back on her elbows, allowing the sheet to slide down where it pooled around her waist, thrust her chest out just slightly, perhaps subconsciously, her bare breasts now exposed in a pose perhaps suited to a chaise in Saint Tropez. She had a brief hallucination of herself as an Amazonian queen overlooking newly conquered territory as she surveyed the dorm bedroom.

The window was slowly letting in more and more of the full yellow sun of late morning. It was half-open, and a cool breeze drifted in through it gently, caressing her nipples, not cold enough that she considered covering herself, and bringing with it muffled radio and muted, intermittent cries of some distant game of, maybe, volleyball. Clothes covered most of the floor in a sea of primarily dark colored school t-shirts, basketball shorts, and boxers. She spied two pink items, her bra and panties, floating nearer the surface.

Half-drunk beer cans were huddled in clusters on every patch of available flat surface like flocks of aluminum seagulls. The fresh air mingled in her nostrils with the scents of the yet-to-be-done laundry, beer, sex, and three marijuana roaches sitting in an ashtray by her side, one of which, she saw presently, was actually still more of a joint.

She lit it up daintily, unpracticed, and, after taking a few tentative puffs, nodded to herself, and saluted the air with the joint before returning it to the ashtray. Gray tendrils of smoke drifted up from its smoldering tip and tentacled around the room as she leaned on her side to regard her bedmate. He was on his stomach facing away from her, sleeping soundly through the day's noises and the click and flash of the lighter.

He was about the same height as Cole, she figured, and had the same brown mop of slightly-ungroomed hair on his head - they might have been mistaken for brothers if she hadn't seen them both naked. She lay back, pensive.

How could two boys that look so alike be so different down there? She had experience before Cole, of course, and seen several shapes and sizes besides his standard issue model, but all of those still seemed to be sold from the same car lot. It was as if she had only ever known sedans, SUVs, and pickup trucks, and now someone had shown her a big rig complete with freight trailer. Big rig - she did giggle at that. Her hand made a circuit from the ashtray to her lips and back again before slipping absentmindedly between her thighs.

In the earlier hours of the night they had stumbled into his dorm room in a cloud of smoke and clanging beer cans, lips locked, one hand each around each other, one free hand each groping in the darkness for the desk lamp, the lock on the door handle, a belt buckle, a bra strap, a jeans button. She remembered her own surprised when she'd first encountered it, feeling the crotch of his jockeys and groping along its cotton clad length, warmth radiating into her palm through his underwear.

Gingerly she had pulled it out, and, after a moment of slack-jawed examination in the dimness, slowly began sliding her hands up and down his shaft. Soon, when all of their clothes had been discarded, she had held it steady in both hands, one not quite being enough to fully encircle it, and had pressed the big, spongy head between her lips, not entirely succeeding in avoiding contact with her teeth, and felt the salty flesh fill her mouth and throat to her tonsils.

She remembered how the condom she fetched from her purse had split like tissue paper when she had tried to pull it onto and down his shaft. That had never been a problem with Cole, and consequently she had been reminded for the first time in a long time how much she enjoyed the sensation of a hot, bare cock inside her.

When he first entered her she thought he must be using his fist, or a beer can, or some baseball-bat-like object, stretching her to the edge of being painful, but his groans quickly let her know it was pure dick flesh filling her up. She remembered looking down from on her back, as she was now, over her breasts which gently bounced in time to his steady rhythm, none of the jack-hammering that she was accustomed to, and seeing his length slowly, inexorably sliding in and out, her pussy lips stretched into an unfamiliar shape around his shaft, her wetness frothing into a white cream along it.

In the present, her fingers slid along her lips, moistened by her erotic reminiscing, and found her clit as they had then. She had found she liked the feeling of being stuffed almost-too-full of cock, the big head nestling repeatedly into some hedonic focal point deep within her, pressing against her back wall, sending delightful jolts of pleasure radiating out in a way she knew she would need a new dildo or appropriately sized vegetable to occasionally replicate on her own.

And she liked the way he had cupped her face and sometimes neck in a way she didn't think Cole would, and wasn't sure she wanted him to. She remembered the way he had come, thrusting into her hard, holding her tightly, both of them moaning as the heat filled her core. Now, one finger delved into her center and emerged with more wetness, perhaps her own, perhaps some of his deposit from last night, and continued to circle her slick button.

With her unoccupied hand, Megan picked up and killed the rest of the joint, and, rather deftly she thought, smashed its dying embers into the ashtray. This whole time, without quite realizing it at a conscious level, she had been contemplating the next stop on her cosmic journey, and now, as a stream of smoke flowed from between her pursed lips, the decision was made.

Any slight twinges of remorse suppressed, she reached over, sliding her hand first onto his warm back and caressing his shoulder as he stirred, and then slipping her hand down under the sheet to gently squeeze first one firm ass cheek and then the other, she roused him. If Cole wanted to take a break, that was fine with her. They might still get married some day, sure, but in the interim...her thoughts trailed off as the sleepy form beside her rolled over, taking the sheet with him and fully revealing his nakedness. She marvelled anew at the sight and grinned with the wry smile she'd had on her face almost all morning.