Chapter 4
I stood over her and masturbated as Zara's hands played lightly over her body, her fingers teasing her nipples and tracing random patterns over her stomach. The room was silent except for the rhythmic whispering of skin rubbing skin. She still had her eyes closed, and her mouth half-open and inviting. I watched her drive her middle finger deep into her cunt. With her other hand she caressed my sac, pulling me closer to her expectant mouth until the tip of my cock rubbed against her lips.
She sucked it momentarily then whispered, "I can't have a boyfriend."
I continued stroking, my orgasm nearing. Her lips nuzzled the underside of the fleshy tip, sending jolts of electricity directly down my shaft, through my balls and up my spine. With a groan the dam burst. White lines of cum jetted across the bridge of her nose and caught in her heavy lashes. She pulled me into her mouth and I came some more. When I was finished my knees felt weak.
"I can't have a boyfriend," she repeated as my seed dribbled slowly from the corner of her mouth.
I offered her a towel to clean up. Zara climbed wearily into my bed and pulled the covers over her. I watched her sleep for a while before I got dressed and went back to my desk. I touched every item on the desktop exactly seven times in the proper order before I could resume my calculus homework, letting her sleep for an hour before I woke her gently.
"Zara, you have to get back before curfew," I said softly. She mumbled an acknowledgement and pulled me into bed, her buttocks pressing up against my growing erection. We lay there for several minutes, me lightly stroking her hair. At last she rose from the bed and dressed.
She looked me steadily in the eye. "I can't have a boyfriend."
"I know," I said. "Come on, I'll walk you back to your dorm."
This time, I remembered to get her phone number.
The next evening we were sitting in a booth at a busy coffee shop. Alternative music played overhead as students studied and writers pretended to write the great American novel on their laptops. I'm not the type to go out in public but Zara had succeeded in dragging me out of my room. I surreptitiously tapped the handle of my mug the correct number of times before I drank. Zara took a sip of her coffee and carefully set it down.
"How come you don't have a girlfriend?"
The question caught me off guard. I thought for a minute then shrugged. It couldn't hurt to tell her the truth. "I have an anxiety disorder that makes it hard for me to meet people, especially girls."
She frowned. "You didn't have any problems talking to me that first night."
"That's partly because of the beer," I explained, "and mostly that you talked to me first. You broke the ice and you carried the conversation. If you think back, I just went along for the ride."
"So," she shrugged, "why don't you meet girls at parties or bars?"
I fidgeted with a stirring straw, twisting it into knots. "Crowds make me anxious, I mean, really anxious. There's a reason I'm sitting with my back to the rest of the room, so I don't know how many people are here. I can't go to any athletic events, and if a campus bus is crowded I'll wait for the next one which sometimes makes me late for class. Even big lectures give me a buggy feeling." The straw finally snapped between my fingers on the forty-third twist.
There's a name for what I have: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Why I didn't tell Zara I have OCD I'll never know. Maybe it's because I'm keenly aware of how crazy I am. My main obsession is numbers. I count everything, how many twists it takes to break a straw or how many steps I take to and from class. My compulsion is having to touch things seven times to make everything all right. The anxiety on top of OCD was just a perk.
"Oh my God, you've never been to a football game?" she asked incredulously. "That's a sacrilege at this school."
I shook my head. "Just the thought of a hundred thousand people all in one place makes me nauseous."
"Do you get full-blown panic attacks?" I nodded. "Ever tried medication?"
I chewed on my lower lip. The subject was a touchy one because of the stigma of taking prescribed meds. It had been my experience that once someone found out they treated me differently. But Zara wasn't like other people. "Yeah, but I haven't found one I like. They do help alleviate the anxiety but they all have drawbacks. Some made me feel like a zombie, some are better but everything is still a tad foggy, and some have undesirable side effects."
"Such as?"
I fidgeted in my seat. I hated talking about it but Zara's piercing gaze wouldn't let me go. "This one particular drug gave me a raging erection."
"Sounds like fun," she said mischievously, "what with all that meat you're packing."
"It wasn't. I was sixteen and already a typical horny teenager. I got plenty of erections all on my own. When I was on the med I was hard all the time and not only was it embarrassing it was also very painful."
"Do you have any of those pills left?" she asked, her voice full of hope.
"No, I flushed them a long time ago." Zara pouted at me across the table.
We sipped our coffee in silence until Zara declared, "You are a fucking enigma." I couldn't decide if I should be insulted by that. "You're a virgin who can barely go out in public, let alone talk to women, but you have a cock any girl would kill to suck or fuck. And there's no way you should be that good at eating me out. How can you be that good?" I shrugged as I had no clue. "Did someone teach you?"
"No, but I do like watching it in videos," I admitted. "In fact, it's the only kind of porn I like. I really enjoy seeing a woman get off." That wasn't the whole truth, though. A more accurate statement is that I always have a feeling something bad will happen if the woman doesn't orgasm. Watching a video for the first time always fills me with trepidation as I don't know if they will show the woman climaxing.
"What's it like for you, what's going through your mind when you have your tongue buried in my cunt?"
"I don't know." I paused. "It's like I'm in some sort of trance and it's the only thing in the world. Nothing else exists. Maybe I blackout or something, you know, the way an alcoholic will blackout when they've been drinking."