Sam wasn't having much fun. He had to spend Passover at his sister's ultra-orthodox in-laws, and he was going stir crazy. And it had only been two days–another six to go. And no girls. Not that it would have made much difference. Sam, was, while very friendly and likable, not exactly Casanova. He was nineteen in two days and still a virgin.
But while there were no girls, there were women. Sam's sister had seven brother-in-laws, and all of them, and their wives, were there for the holiday. So Sam stayed in his room, away from the incessant blathering of his brother-in-law's sisters-in-law, only coming down for meals. Luckily, when he was down there, very little of the blathering was directed toward him. He went by pretty much unnoticed, an accessory of his sister's, like a homeless person in a soup kitchen.
The only person that seemed to acknowledge his existence was the wife of the youngest brother of Sam's brother-in-law, Sarah. She was the youngest woman there–still six years Sam's senior–and very quiet. But she would look at Sam. Every once in a while. At meals, when he would skulk away back to his room, when she was breast-feeding her baby–quiet little glances that turned into embarrassed blushes when he would return them. It perturbed Sam, but the idea of acting on it would have been alien to him even if she had been a regular girl, let alone practically family.
But Sam was used to not having his needs fulfilled by someone else. He was used to having to masturbate whenever the need arose, although it required more creative input here, where there was no internet access readily available. With a healthy libido, Sam had already masturbated seven times in the seventy-two or so hours or so he had been here. And though outwardly Sam may have appeared shy or conservative, up there, in his mind, nothing was taboo or disgusting. So Sarah had already slipped into his mind during his masturbation sessions once or twice, with nary a guilty feeling.
On the third night in the house, Sam slipped out of his room at about one o'clock, ready for a little self-relief. The bathroom door didn't click shut, so it was either occupied and locked or easily pushed open, all noiselessly. So when Sam approached the door, all it took was a silent touch to see that someone was in there already. Sam turned around to go back to his room and wait, when he heard a noise from inside the bathroom. A soft moan. Interest piqued, Sam stood stock-still near the door and listened in the otherwise dead silent house. And through door he could hear it continue. An occasional moan and groan. Sam had pretty good ears, and he could make out that the sounds were slowly, hem, climaxing. He heard on final, loud, moan, and then, barely, faint panting. When he heard the toilet flush and the sink start to run, he dashed silently back into his room. He left the door to his room open, and lay down in his bed, from where he could see and stay unseen. He heard the bathroom door unlock and open, and watched as Sarah walked out and past his room. She stopped for a moment, and looked into his room, her cheeks a bright pink in the faint hall light, her chest heaving. Then she turned away hurriedly, and went down the stairs.
The entire episode would alone have been extremely erotic, and arousing for Sam, but something else tugged at the back of Sam's mind. Sarah and her husband were staying in the basement. Even if, for whatever reason, she couldn't find gratification from her husband, there was a bathroom down there Sarah could have used, and another one on the ground floor. Why did she feel the need to come all the way upstairs, to the bathroom right next to Sam's room? Sam couldn't accept the idea that she was hot for him, but decided to watch her more carefully nonetheless.
The next time he saw her was at dinner the next night. Now that he was watching her more covertly, and peripherally, he could see that she did actually look at him a lot. Shyly, and trying to hide it, but looking all the same. And not in the same way she looked at her husband, or anyone else. She saw something in Sam, perhaps his youth, or the way he stood out among the cookie-cutout men of that family, and it awoke in her a lust like fire. He could see it in her eyes. She looked at him the way someone who's eaten chocolate ice-cream all their life might look at a scoop of mint chocolate-chip. No one else saw it, because, well, the very idea! People don't see things they don't believe. She could have jumped his bones on the very table they were eating on, and their brain wouldn't have processed what their eyes were seeing.
Sam knew, watching her, that she would be back upstairs that night. And goddamn if he wasn't going to do something about it. He couldn't let her know he knew of course, but he couldn't let a petite, twenty-five year old brunette get off fifteen feet away from him without having more, either. After the meal, Sam hurried upstairs and into the bathroom. The light was off, and had been the whole holiday. (Jewish law forbids the use of electricity on holy days.) It would stay off, so the only light came in through the tinted window from the streetlamp outside, and illuminated the toilet area just enough for use. The shower, though, with its darkened glass door opposite the toilet, was completely shrouded in darkness. Sam jumped in there, closed the door behind him, and sat down on the hard shower floor to wait.
