Rambling Chantrix

I could write a story about step siblings banging. Or about a pool boy and the MILF down the block. I could write about a business man’s affair, or about parallel play on a park bench, at night, on some abandoned golf course somewhere. Or maybe you’d like a story about a cheating wife, caught, pleading for forgiveness? On her knees, begging to show her husband she needs no cock but his, her mascara running down her cheeks as he vindictively reams her little sister?

None of these interest me. I don’t know these people. Their stories don’t turn me on. Honestly, even writing that paragraph, my stomach turned a little bit. Now, listen—I’m not like, super judgy or anything. I’m not trying to say what people should or shouldn’t do, or what people should or shouldn’t write about, or what people should or shouldn’t use for fap material.

Like, I get it. You’re here on Literotica looking for something hot, and I’m here on Literotica to provide something hot. We’re co-conspirators, and we’ve got tens of thousands of peers signing on here every month to get their rocks off.

Whatever.

If you want to read something impersonal, something sexy and dumb, honestly? Look elsewhere. I’m going to do my best to get my readers off—I’m definitely pro orgasm!—but I’m not going to write one of these... well, I shouldn’t say trite, but fuck it. This is my submission, and I can say what I want. Trite. These scenarios are trite. They’re trite and to me they’re entirely unappealing. Because, like I said... and sorry, sorry if this is too roundabout, you know, skip ahead a bit if you’re not enamored with my authorial voice, okay? Like I said, I don’t know these people. These step siblings, these MILFs, these business men, these wives.

I don’t know them, and they don’t turn me on. Even the ones in my imagination, the characters I create. Nothing.

What does get me going, though, and I hope this works for you, too, because, like I said, I’m doing this to get you off: the people I *do* know.

WORD OF WARNING for folks with proper sensibilities: we’re young, and dumb, and sometimes we’re bad at communication. This doesn’t all develop along the most ethical lines. At the end of the day, though, everything has worked out to the satisfaction of all parties.

That said, here we go!

This is a completely true story about my best friend, her boyfriend, and how all the sex they have entered my life.

#

Wait. Back up. Okay. Hi! I know I just said she was my best friend, but that took some building toward. At first, we barely knew each other. We’d taken two classes together in the English Department. She was the real deal and I was dabbling. But we sat next to each other for an entire semester, rarely talking, and when we shared our second class together a year later she struck up conversation.

Now I know she thought I was cute. At the time, I assumed she needed something.

“Did you lose the syllabus?”

She must have thought that was the dumbest pickup line in the world, but she took pity on me. We went to lunch that day. I was honestly kind of baffled. She was, too. There was no spark. I mean, that wasn’t new for me. I’d heard about sparks, but never felt one.

There was no explicit recognition of our abortive relationship. For my part, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand that she was trying to hit things off. For her part, I learned later that she was embarrassed. Because she didn’t want to admit that she’d been interested, she pretended that she’d just wanted to get to know me. Being who I am, I bought it.

So we got lunch again. Once or twice a month for the rest of the semester. We exchanged numbers and texted about our readings, about our essays.

And that was the extent of it.

I should clarify something before I get too deep, because I don’t want to mischaracterize her. She wasn’t some desperate loser. And she was good-looking. Something you’ll pick up on quickly is that I fixate more on what people say than on what things look like, but here’s what I stuck with me, even, back when I was a dumbass who didn’t know what was going on with my own sexuality.

She wore oversized hoodies with the front unzipped. She looked comfy all the time, drowning in that big wearable gray blanket. She usually matched it with skinny blue jeans and a tight colored tank. Her tits were noticeable, and nice, but so was her collarbone, and she had a conventionally attractive nose and mouth. She had these little dimples when she smiled wide enough, and I remember thinking, at that first lunch, in a sort of mechanical way: I bet a bunch of guys think she’s super cute. Her skin had a golden glow to it, and she wore good colors on her nails and lips. She did her hair all kinds of ways, but my favorite, from a purely aesthetic viewpoint, was when she let it all down, sleek black strands flaring out over her shoulders. It worked well with that hoodie.

And, of course, she had a winning personality. She was good at striking up conversation, making folks feel comfortable around her, making friends. From what I gathered, she made more than friends.

Gathered isn’t the right word. She told me.

Maybe she was trying to rub my face in it for not returning her initial attraction, or maybe she was just settling into our friendship in an easy and genuine way. But she was easy, and she talked about being easy. She fucked a lot of guys that first semester of sophomore year and was *not* shy about discussing it.

I was the shy one, too reserved to explain to her that I didn’t like hearing about her exploits in graphic detail. Like, sure, she’s fucking dudes, that’s great. I’m good with it. Follow your bliss. But I don’t need to hear about load sizes or what it feels like to have a dude’s pubic hairs tickle your nostrils.

It didn’t help that at the time, I had yet to figure out what was going on with me.

We naturally fell out of touch in the spring. Without a shared class, we just weren’t in each other’s lives anymore. I was a little bummed that our friendship hadn’t amounted to more, but I was also a little relieved that I didn’t have to listen to her discussing the intricacies of clamping down pussy just so in order to heighten a guy’s orgasm.

This relief was actually so intense that I did some serious soul-searching.

Why hadn’t I ever clicked with anyone sexually? Why was I so bad at dating? Why did no one on Tinder look like someone I wanted to fuck? Why did I hate porn? Why were her stories so unpleasant for me?

To make a long story short—and to skip ahead a few years to the good stuff, because, as we’ve established, you’re here for the boning—I did a lot of research, hooked up with an old high school friend over the summer before junior year, went through the Tumblr therapy wringer, and emerged with a label that finally felt right: demisexual.

#

It was a morning right before our graduation that she reached out to me on Facebook.

“Hey RC, me and Barry have our eye on a super good rent sitch but we’d want a third, are you staying in the area next year?”

I hadn’t heard from her in over two years. It seemed super weird that she was asking me to live with her, so I left the message alone. A couple hours later, she sent me a follow-up.

“Don’t leave me on read RC! I guess this seems weird, but we really need a roomie and I think you’d be a good fit. Say hi? I’ve been reading your blog and thinking we’re overdue to reconnect. Miss you. PS congratulations! Wild that we’re done with school!”

What would you do?

For starters, I didn’t know anything about this Barry fellow. I looked him up on Facebook. Their relationship statuses were both set to “single.” I had some mutuals with him, other classmates over the years.

She’d asked me to say hi, so I did. You’ll notice I’m very obliging.

“Hi Vivian!”

The other thing you need to know here is that I’d been blogging about my experience with demisexuality and bisexuality. I had been sharing some posts to Facebook, and I guess she saw them. So when she mentioned my blog and wanting to reconnect in the same sentence, my curiosity was piqued. What was the connection?

“Yeah, I’m around, for a while actually, got a job in town. What’s new?”

“Oh man RC all the more reason you should check this out.”

She sent me a link to a Craigslist posting.

I’d been developing a reputation for being unflappable in my small circle of friends for whatever reason, but I did a spit take when I saw the price. We lived in a pretty happening metropolitan area with a serious housing crisis, and this place was like $1200 a month for two bedrooms. Looked to be in good condition, had an in-unit washer dryer, big bathroom, a balcony with a partial bay view.

“This has gotta be fake,” I replied.

“It’s not,” she messaged back. “We visited it today. Apparently it’s been rent controlled for almost 20 years, and the landlord is some sweet old lady who doesn’t want to make more money off the backs of us kids.”

I blinked. If she wasn’t being scammed, maybe she was scamming me. And there was another thing that didn’t add up.

“Surely you and Barry can manage 1200 a month between you?”

“Possible,” she admitted, “but not ideal. He’s hoping to spend less time picking up shifts and more time on his band, plus it’s more space than we need for just us, and it’d be nice to share the chores and so on.”

“You barely know me,” I finally objected.

“I know this may sound weird, but I honestly feel like I know you pretty well. Give it a real thought. We can meet up, have a meal, catch up, check the place out together. Landlady says it’s ours if we want it, and that means it’s yours too.”

Her insistence was the weirdest part, I felt. Didn’t she have any better friends to go in on this with? But, like I said, I’m pretty obliging. Besides, I had nothing better to do. Most of my friends weren’t sticking around for the graduation ceremony, and had already left town. I’d finished my term papers and was literally just playing video games and counting the days until my job would start.

I wrote back acquiescing to lunch, and we agreed to meet at a falafel place on the south side of campus. I forget the name, but I can’t forget those falafels. Holy hell. You think step siblings and MILFs are sexy, sometime you should ask me about falafel.

Anyway, we met up, and like I mentioned she has this way with people. She made it feel like we’d last seen each other on Wednesday, or something, not two years earlier. My name rolled off her tongue like she said it a lot, and I have to admit, she got me in a pretty gregarious mood. We ate falafel and complained about our final papers, and the apartment didn’t come up a single time, nor did any of her recent sexual conquests.

I had a moment in the conversation where I was like, shit, this is a nice friend. I wish I had this friend. And that was probably the moment of no return.

I enjoyed her company, in large part because she made me feel like she enjoyed mine, and I noticed she looked better than ever, happier, maybe. She complimented me on my shirt and my glasses, which felt like a bit of overkill, but I guess I’d made a post on my blog about how the more feminine frames made me feel and maybe this was her way of acknowledging my interests and attachments. I told her I liked her nails, and she shot back that she liked mine, and I realized that I hadn’t been painting them yet back when we were classmates.

“It’s been too long,” I said.

“That’s what I was saying!” She chuckled. “Come on, you wanna see the place or what?”

I genuinely couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to pack up and go back to my video games. I nodded, and we caught the bus across town.

“Are those gels?” she asked while we waited, taking my hand in hers.

“Nah, just a couple coats of Sally Hansen.”

“Damn, you do this yourself?”

I nodded.

“It’s really nice,” she said. “The dark color works well with your skin tone.”

“I *am* a pasty mother fucker,” I said ruefully.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re good, you’ve got wintery skin.” She caught my raised eyebrow and laughed. “Sorry, am I being weird?”

I shrugged, because the answer was yes but I didn’t hate it. If she’d asked me that question two years earlier, when she was describing the feeling of getting eaten out by one of her professors, I might have said yes, and gotten the coveted topic change. But this was harmless, and kind of fun, if a little embarrassing.

“Stop me if I am,” she said. “I sometimes don’t have great boundaries.”

I cracked a grin at that, and she covered her face in exaggerated, but probably genuine, shame.

“Oh nooo,” she whined.

“It’s okay,” I said.

Her performance evolved into sincere sheepishness as she uncovered her face. “For real, though, reading about your stuff on your blog made me realize I’d kinda dumped thoughtlessly on you. That must have sucked. I was feeling my oats, feeling liberated and sexy, transgressive in a good way. But I never asked how you felt. You wrote that seeing or imagining other people fucking can disgust you, and I was just shoving it in your face all the time.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t going to lie and say it was no problem at all, but I also didn’t want her to feel too bad. I mean, I felt like I hadn’t set great boundaries either. The problem seemed to have been on both of us. I’m also better at tackling these issues in premeditated blog posts than in spur-of-the-moment real-time conversations.

Luckily, I didn’t need to say anything, because just then the bus came, and we busied ourselves with fishing our bus passes out of our wallets.

The bus ride was...

You know what? Let’s skip ahead a bit again. I feel like I’ve captured enough of our reunion for you to fill in the rest. I met Barry, who was indeed her steady boyfriend. He seemed nice enough. We signed the paperwork. My own lease was up at the end of the month and the timing couldn’t have been better. They moved into the larger bedroom; I moved into the smaller. We split the rent 30-30-40, and we made a chore chart. The space was fucking incredible for the price, and we reveled in it.

#

Several nights a week ended with the three of us kicking back in the living room, some kind of Netflix reality show about gardens or nature in the background, toasting our windfall with Angry Orchard. Compared to many recent graduates, we were living like kings.

It was on one of these chill evenings that she decided—possibly with the encouragement of one more cider than usual—to explain the connection between my blog about demisexuality and our new living situation.

“We’re nudists,” she said, tentatively.

To my eternal discredit, I think my reaction was to laugh heartily.

Look, I get it. I’m a dumbass. But here’s the thing. She seemed to like clothes plenty. I rarely saw her without that giant hoodie. She might have been easy in sophomore year, but she didn’t seem too interested in showing skin.

“Is that funny?” she asked, genuine concern in her face.

I recovered and apologized. “I, uh, I think you might need to explain some concepts.”

“It’s simple,” Barry cut in. He’d had less to drink, and wasn’t playing coy. “We prefer being naked to wearing clothes. It’s not a sexual thing, we just like how everything feels better when we’re undressed.”

“Huh.” I’m eloquent, too!

My mind was actually racing. Did they want to be naked, like, now? Why didn’t they just rent a place by themselves if they wanted to be naked all the time? Was the rent such an issue? The chores?

“We were going to get a place on our own,” Vivian explained, unbidden, “but like, all the one bedrooms in town were more than this place, and really, having a third person to help with the rent is going to make a huge difference for Barry especially.”

He nodded.

I took another sip of my cider. “Okay, so you’re nudists.”

“Yeah, and you’re demi.”

“Huh?”

“When we saw this place, we thought we had two choices. We could shoulder the full amount ourselves and live a nudist lifestyle or we could find a third and get the incredible deal we have now, you know, like we have now with you. But then I thought about it more, and you had this whole blog thing I’d been following about demi stuff. I had this idea that maybe you wouldn’t look at us like pieces of meat, if we maybe occasionally didn’t have like, all our clothes on all the time or something.”

The drinks were definitely having an effect. Me, you can expect some huhs and run-ons, but she was the English major, for crying out loud!

“I mean, you’re definitely not meat,” I said, trying to find the easy responses.

“You know what I mean!”

I shrugged in such a way as to say I probably did. And she actually had a pretty good idea, to be honest. I wasn’t sexually attracted to her or Barry. I didn’t have that deep emotional connection that I needed in order to feel physical attraction. A lot of people don’t get it—they say oh, yeah, that’s me. I, too, don’t fuck without love! And I’m like, no. You meet people on Tinder and you bang within a week. I know someone half a decade before I feel anything in my dick.

(Okay, the half a decade thing is the extreme case, but still.)

I realized that she was waiting for me to say something, and that Barry was pointedly looking anywhere but my face. Still, I gaped.

“Sorry RC, I don’t want to pressure you into anything. Barry and I agreed that the rent was too good, that this would be worth it even if we couldn’t do the nude thing at home. I just picked you because I thought there was a chance. Like, a bonus.”

“I... I guess there is a chance,” I said.

Vivian’s eyes lit the fuck up, and I felt in that moment that despite her assurances, there was actually *considerable* pressure on me to say I was cool with it. This was the first of a few times her bad boundaries resurfaced. What with hindsight being 20-20, I really don’t feel like I was forced into a bad position, here, but still: there was pressure. Objectively it wasn’t great of her, of them, to spring this on me, even if they were saying it wasn’t a big deal. It was the obliging side of me that continued the conversation.

“How do you feel about me staying clothed? Would that be weird?”

“RC, you should dress however you like in your own home,” said Barry. “That said, not gonna lie, we might convert you in time. Clothes kinda suck.”

She nodded at that, and I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t imagine myself being naked all the time.

“And you’re not worried about me perving on you or whatever?”

She shook her head. “I don’t need to be, do I?”

She didn’t.

“And you just want to feel comfortable disrobing whenever, wherever in the apartment?”

“If that’s on offer.”

I knocked back the rest of my cider. “How would you feel if we tried it out but I could say it’s not working for me?”

“Totally fine,” she said. “I mean, cards on the table, a little disappointed. But we’re asking a lot.”

I popped the cap off another bottle. “Fuck it,” I said.

Barry immediately removed his shirt. He’d been wearing a college tee and he just slid it up over his shoulders and head and pulled it off. He was nicely built, not super scrawny, not heavy, just like, solid. Good shape. A bit of a light happy trail. His even tan suggested that he and Vivian had already been spending some time outdoors in minimal clothing.

Vivian laughed. “Being nude is one thing but I dunno about a strip show.” She disappeared into their bedroom.

Barry shrugged as she retreated. “Should I go, too, or...?”

I shrugged back. “You’re the nudist.”

He contemplated that one like it was a koan, then stood and dropped his pants. He hadn’t been wearing any underwear, which I guess in retrospect shouldn’t have surprised me, but the sudden appearance of his penis did kinda put me on my back foot. I suddenly became very interested in the Angry Orchard label. In my peripheral vision, I saw Barry sit back down. I couldn’t help but notice that he was almost clean shaven, but I had managed to avoid soaking in too many other details.