Dairy Of A Catholic College Slut

My phone buzzed like a phantom somewhere under the damp, tangled sheets, relentless as a guilty conscience. Dylan's musky cologne still hung in the air, pulling me back to the shower--his mouth searing my throat, hands gliding over my soapy skin. Of course it was Mom, her Catholic panic kicking in before she'd even made it back to New Hampshire. Four hours wasn't enough distance to stop her from checking if my first taste of freedom met her saintly standards.

I should have answered before, but my priorities had been...

elsewhere

. My skin still tingly from his touch, those strong yet gentle hands sliding up and down my soapy back, the memory alone enough to send a shiver low in my belly. And then there was the undeniable dampness between my legs, a blatant reminder of rhythm we'd found pressed together against the cool tile.

I had to come up with a believable lie, a saintly narrative of making friends and settling in, because the truth--the gloriously messy, sticky, orgasm-fueled truth--would send my mom into a full-blown rosary recitation.

If Mom ever found out that my first night of college involved being intimately wrapped around Dylan--first under the steaming spray of the coed shower, our bodies slick and urgent as we explored every curve and crevice, the sweet taste of his lips and the salty taste of his manhood still on my tongue, and then back into the privacy of my tiny dorm room where that spark detonated into a full-blown inferno on my sheets--she'd probably try to enroll me in a convent. No way could I confess that I'd ignored her calls because I was too busy exploring every inch of Dylan's body with my fingers, tongue, and much more intimate parts, that I was consumed by his orgasmic releases, first in my mouth and then, more intimately, inside me.

Finally, I located the noisy culprit, fishing my phone from the chaotic aftermath. Mom's name blazed accusingly across the screen. Taking a deep breath, I swiped to answer. "Hey, Mom!" I chirped, injecting an upbeat tone that felt miles away from the lingering warmth and stickiness between my thighs.

"Carly! Thank God! I've been trying to reach you. Is everything okay? I called before but you didn't answer." Her voice was tight with that familiar, suffocating worry.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's great." I lied smoothly, my gaze drifting over to Dylan. He was stretched out on my bed, still naked and deliciously relaxed. His dark, powerful eyes flickered open, meeting mine with a knowing smirk that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in my abdomen. Sweat trickled down from his not-so-perfectly formed, yet incredibly sexy abs and then lower, near his perking up manhood. An urge, almost desperate need to drop the phone and take him again...in my mouth, in my pussy.

"I just got back from a freshmen get together." Dylan's smirk widened, a flash of white teeth, and he reached a hand toward me. I had to throw a pillow at him, a playful swat that barely conferred the renewed desire tightening in my chest, before my mom heard him.

"Oh, that's good, honey! Making friends is so important," Mom said, the tension in her voice easing slightly. "Did you meet any nice girls?"

"Yeah, Mom. Lots of...nice people," I managed, a blush creeping up the side of my neck as I recalled the decidedly un-nice things Dylan and I had done together. "It was fun. Everyone's really friendly." The line went quiet for a moment, and in that silence, the image of Dylan's face when we first met at orientation flashed in my mind...

The July sun beat down on the campus lawn, turning an orientation icebreaker into a sweaty blur of name tags and forced smiles. I was half-listening to some girl drown on about her AP credits when I saw him--tall, lean, cutting through the crowd like he owned the place. Dark hair flopped over his forehead, and his half-smile hit me like a punch in the gut. My boyfriend back home, Aaron, suddenly felt like a distant memory.

He stopped a few feet away, chatting with a group of guys, his voice a low rumble that carried over the chatter. I couldn't stop staring--those broad shoulders, the way his tee shirt clung to his chest. Then his eyes flicked my way.

Caught

. My cheeks burned, but I couldn't look away. Neither did he.

"Hey," he said, breaking off from the pack and strolling over, hands shoved into his pockets. Up close he smelled like sunscreen and something faintly spicy. "You look lost."

"No, not lost," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Just...observing." My gaze dipped to his lips, then snapped back up.

God

,

Carly, chill

.

He grinned a slow, knowing curve that made my stomach flip. "Dylan," he said, nodding as if it was a gift. "You?"

"I'm Carly." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat beading on my neck.

"Cool. You here with someone?" His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered, sizing me up.

"Uh, no. I mean, not like that. I have a boyfriend back home, though."

Why did I say that? It sounded pathetic, even to me.

His grin faltered, just for a second, and his hand lifted to rub the back of his neck--a quick, restless twitch before he dropped it. "Right. Well, see you around, Carly." He gave me a lazy salute, then turned back to his group, leaving me with the echo of his voice and a stupid, giddy buzz I couldn't shake.

I hadn't expected to see him again so soon, if at all. Orientation had been a whirlwind of faces and names. But a few weeks later, with the official start of college looming and my parents having just deposited me in my very own dorm room, the campus held a welcome get-together for us freshmen.

Stepping out onto the lawn, the sheer novelty of being alone, truly alone, washed over me. It was a heady, slightly intoxicating feeling, like that first taste of real independence. This was

my time

.

My

space.

My

beginning. The quad was already alive with the nervous energy of my fellow freshmen, the forced enthusiasm of a few upperclassman helpers, and a scattering of other faces I vaguely remembered from the summer--athletes who were back on campus early.

And then, amidst the crowd, I spotted a familiar face. Dylan.

Even across the crowded lawn, he stood out. Tall, handsome in a effortless kind of way, wearing a faded tank-top that showed off his toned and tanned arms, his hair falling just so across his forehead. That charming half-smile I'd briefly encountered during orientation was in full effect as he talked, and my stomach did that familiar little flip. He was even more... more than I remembered.

We'd only exchanged a few polite sentences back then, and I felt like a babbling idiot. But even in that short interaction, I'd felt something. A spark, maybe. Or butterflies. Maybe both, or maybe it was just my lifelong fascination and obsession with the opposite sex fully kicking in.

As if feeling my gaze, his eyes flicked up and met mine. That smile widened, and he pushed off the brick wall he'd been leaning against, heading my way. My palms instantly felt a little sweaty, my stomach dancing

"Carly, right?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. "Didn't think I'd see you here. Welcome to the real deal."

"Dylan," I managed, trying to keep my voice even. "Yeah, orientation feels like a lifetime ago."

We fell into easy conversation, the kind that felt natural and effortless. He was funny, teasing me gently about my wide-eyed freshman wonder, and genuinely seemed interested in what I had to say. We migrated to the edge of the party, finding a quieter spot under the string lights. He produced a red plastic cup from somewhere, already filled with a golden liquid that smelled faintly of beer. He offered me a sip.

"Just to take the edge off," he'd said with a wink. I hesitated for a millisecond, Mom's voice echoing in my head about the dangers of alcohol and boys, but the lure of the forbidden--and the undeniable pull of Dylan--was too strong. I took a tentative sip. It tasted surprisingly good.

As the evening wore on, the conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. He told me about his soccer season, his classes (mercifully none of mine), and his plans for the year. I found myself laughing easily at his stories, my initial nervousness melting away. He was charming, undeniably so, and I knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and slightly worried me, that he knew it too. He was a player, I could sense it, but right now, under the soft glow of the lights, I didn't care. I was completely, utterly smitten.

Eventually, the crowd started to thin. "Want to keep talking somewhere a little less... freshman-y?" Dylan asked, his eyes holding mine.

My heart did a little leap. "Sure," I said, trying to sound casual.

We walked the short distance to my dorm, the late-summer air cool against my skin. The common room was deserted, most people probably already holed up in their rooms. We sat on the lumpy couch, the silence comfortable. He leaned closer, and the scent of his cologne--something musky and warm--filled my senses.

It started with small touches--his hand brushing mine as he gestured, his knee lightly bumping against mine. Each contact sent a jolt through me. Then he was turning towards me, his gaze dropping to my lips. My breath hitched.

The kiss was soft at first, a tentative exploration. Then it deepened, his lips parting mine, and a familiar heat bloomed in my chest. It has only been six months since I'd lost my virginity, a clumsy, slightly awkward encounter with a boy from back home. There had been a couple others since, each a little better, a little more confident. But this...this felt different.

Electric

.

Dylan's hands found their way to my sides, then lower, his fingers tracing the non-existent curve of my hip. I shivered, a thrill coursing through me. He leaned in further, whispering against my ear, his breath warm. His hands reached under my crop top, pushing up my bra, freeing my breasts and then cupping them in his hands, his touch sending a wave of sensation through me. I arched into his touch, a small moan escaping my lips. He messaged them with gentle force, then quickly pinched my tiny nipples between his fingers. I gasped.

But then, a tiny voice of caution, a remnant of all those years of Mom's warnings, flickered in my mind. This was fast.

So

fast.

I liked it, God, I liked it a lot.

The freedom of it, the raw physicality, the undeniable pull of Dylan.

I wanted it. I wanted him

. But something held me back, a hesitant whisper amidst the rising tide of desire.

I gently pulled his hands from my boobs. "Dylan," I said, my voice a little shaky. "I...I'm kinda tired, and I really wanted to take a shower before bed."

His eyes, intense moments before, softened slightly. He pulled back, a charmingly apologetic smile on his lips. "Of course. No worries at all." He stood up. "Long day of unpacking and freshman orientation overload, huh?"

I nodded, relieved and slightly disappointed. Part of me wished he fought me on it, and if he did, I'd probably have invited him back to my room. This push and pull, this internal battle between wanting to explore this newfound freedom and the ingrained voice of caution, was exhausting.

"Hey," he said, pausing at the door. "If you want a nice shower, use the bathroom down the hall. It's coed, but the shower stalls are bigger, and trust me, the water pressure is way better than in the girls' bathrooms on this floor."

"It's coed?" I repeated, a little surprised.

"Yeah. All the dorms have one on each floor. There are bathrooms for guys and girls and then one that's coed--anyone can use it. Well, see you around, Carly." And then he was gone, leaving me along in the quiet common room, the lingering scent of his cologne a tantalizing reminder of what almost happened.

Oh well.

Dylan's suggestion echoed in my mind, the promise of decent water pressure tugging at me like a siren's call. The coed part? It threw me off at first--Mom would probably keel over imagining me sharing a bathroom with boys--but it also carried a hint of the freedom everyone raved about. I cinched my towel tighter around myself, scooped up my toiletries, and slid into my flip-flops, embarking on what felt like a defiant--and slightly terrifying--trek down the hall. I paused at the door, took a deep breath and entered. It didn't disappoint. The shower room was spacious, clean, and tucked away in the back--a hidden gem with four individual stalls, each a small haven compared to the grim, prison-like showers I'd glimpsed elsewhere. Every stall had its own dressing area, shielded by thick curtains, and the showers themselves were generously sized, crowned with shower heads that actually looked promising.

In the dressing area, I hung my towel, then reached into the shower to set my toiletries on the floor and turn on the water, stepping in, I let the hot spray pound my skin. It felt good, washing away the day's stickiness and the lingering tension from my run-in with Dylan. I was halfway through shampooing, suds running down my face, when I heard someone else in the bathroom, followed by the quick shush of the curtain rings.

And then he was just... there.

Dylan

. Framed by the steam, his silhouette cut a solid shape against the hazy backdrop. My breath caught, not just from surprise, but from the sheer presence of him. My eyes drifted downwards, almost against my will. The towel hung low on his hips, a thin shield, that did little to hide the taut lines of his stomach or the sharp dip of his hip bones. Even the damp terrycloth molded to the contours of his thighs, tracing the muscled contours I'd only faintly noticed beneath his clothes before. There was a casual confidence in the way he stood, completely unselfconscious, that drew me in and unnerved me all at once.

And then the towel slipped away, hitting the wet tile with a soft, muffled thud, a subtle sound dwarfed by the stark visual it unload. My eyes widened, and a strange mix of shock and raw curiosity surged through me. It was...

more

than I had imagined. Longer and thicker than the fleeting glimpses I caught in locker rooms scenes on screen. The curve was striking, a bold symbol of his masculinity. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic rhythm cutting through the sudden stillness, despite the rushing water. It wasn't just the size; it was the way it rested against his thigh, the subtle shift as he moved, the dark shadow at the tip. Heat flooded my cheeks, and an almost magnetic pull locked my gaze. He was... beautifully built. Lean muscle rippled across his shoulders and arms, water droplets tracing to the defined lines of his chest. His stomach was flat, the muscles subtly defined. It was the body of an athlete, powerful and sculpted. But it was his manhood that gripped my attention. It was raw, exposed, and undeniably male. It was a tangible representation of the desire that had been simmering between us all evening. A flicker of unease, a remnant of Mom's warnings about "boys" and their intentions, tried to surface, but it was quickly drowned out by a more powerful feeling - a potent cocktail of fascination, arousal, and a daring sense of exploration.

"Thought you might want some company," he murmured, his voice a husky rasp that sent a shiver down my spine, nothing like the nervous tremors from before.

My shock melted into a dizzying surge of desire, a primal pull that drowned out every rational thought. "Maybe," I whispered, a shaken smile tugging at my lips as my gaze flicked up to meet his dark, knowing eyes. "Want to join me?"

He stepped into the shower, the tight space crackling with his presence. The tile felt cool against me skin as he closed the distance, nudging me forward, his body heat seeping into me. The water's rush amplified my pounding heart, my quickening breath. His hands glided down my wet, soapy arms--slow, deliberate--tracing the slim curve of my waist, the swell of my hips with a bold confidence that thrills die and sparked a faint tremor of unease.

He drew me closer, my backside bumping against the hard ridge of his arousal, its insistent warmth radiating through me. His fingers skimmed the line of my spine, dipping lower, a teasing brush along the crease of my buttock that sent shivers cascading down my legs. His lips grazed the tender skin of my neck, teeth nipping lightly at first, then with more hunger, pulling a soft moan from me before I could catch it. His hands slid to my breasts, thumbs circling my already taut nipples, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through me. I arched into his touch, a raw instinct taking hold as the last threads of caution dissolved in the steam-charged air.

He dipped his head, his tongue carving a hot, wet trail down my throat, across my collarbone, slipping below my bra line, and then lower still, his warm breath brushed my stomach, a fleeting, tantalizing tease. My legs quaked, and I instinctively tightened my hold on his shoulders and separated my legs a little. Then his touch found me--his finger gliding along my slit, brushing my clit with a soft, deliberate flick. Again and again. I shuddered, squirming, my balance teetering on the edge.

"You have an amazing body, Carly," he whispered. "I love how it shaved and smooth."

His words, though intended as a compliment, stirred a tangled rush of emotions.Relief, perhaps, that he approved. But also a flicker of the insecurity that had driven that decision in the first place. It hadn't started with pleasing a boy--not really. Years ago, I'd overheard older girls sneering about pubic hair--gross, unhygienic--their disdain sinking deep. From the moment it appeared, I'd stripped it away, a ritual to feel clean, acceptable. Even now, part of me lingered as that skinny, underdeveloped girl--petite at five-three, barely tipping 110 pounds. Small breasts, tiny nipples, a frame more straight than curved, hips and butt barely registering. Pretty, sure, in a quiet, girl-next-door way, but never the knockout. Dylan's touch, though, lit something else--desire. For once, maybe, my doubts didn't weigh as much.

He spun me around, his tongue flickering over my backside a few times before he rose, pressing his body against mine and drawing me into a deep, hungry kiss. Then, as he angled himself and lifted my leg, I yielded willingly--

craving it, aching for it.

The heat of his cock brushed my folds.

But then a cold, sharp thought sliced through the fog of desire:

protection

. The word jarred in my mind, a jarring alarm.

"Wait," I gasped, my grip tightening on his shoulders, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. "We... we don't have a condom." The words spilled out, a sudden jolt of reality in the steamy fantasy.

Dylan froze, his eyes locking onto mine. Desire still burned in them, now tempered by a flicker of concern. "You're right," he murmured, his brow ceasing faintly. "Shit. I didn't even think..." He trailed off, hands settling gently on my waist. "We can stop. It's fine. We don't have to do anything you're not okay with."

His thoughtfulness caught me off guard, a brief halt to the tidal wave of our hunger. A small, cautious voice--the one shaped by Mom's endless lectures--urged me to agree. This was the smart move, the safe one, a chance to dodge the fallout. But the rest of me, the fierce, untamed part that had tasted freedom hours earlier, roared in defiance.

Stop

? The idea felt absurd. My body hummed with need, every nerve sparkling under Dylan's touch, his closeness.The memory of his hardness pressing against me moments ago lingered--an intoxicating promise I now craved. To pull back, to retreat into rules and restraint, would betray this bold new self, snuffing out the wild rush that had swept me up.

Here he stood, naked and eager, his gaze mirroring my own fire. This wasn't scripted or safe--it was raw, impulsive, a fleeting collision in the steamy haze of a coed shower. Dangerous, reckless, but achingly real.