It occurred to me that she loved to feel like someone else was in command, and I decided to push the limits.

Early in my relationship with Cynthia—the girl built like a dancer—I noticed a pattern.

When we’d embrace, if I lifted her slightly, she’d moan.

One day, we were in her room, and she was on the phone with her mother. She was sitting on a little dorm fridge, I was on the bed. I decided to get a beer, and so just to be funny, I reached behind her, lifted her, and moved her to the bed, so that I could open the refrigerator door. She was totally turned on by this, and attacked me as soon as she hung up.

So, a few days later, we were in my room. We were talking, listening to music, then started making out, and then I lifted her slightly, and pressed her against the wall, as I kissed her, and I knew she was melting. She loved brute displays of strength. Music conservatories are fairly cerebral places, so I guess she found this refreshing. And I’ll admit, so did I. I’m a relatively big guy, 6’2, 195, and especially in those days, in shape. She was only about 110 lbs, 5’2. It wasn’t really any weight for me, and she loved to be whisked away.

It occurred to me that she loved to feel like someone else was in command, and as I felt her feather weight that night, I decided to push the limits. This continued, over our relationship.

I set her down, opened my door and looked down the hallway. It was Saturday, around 10, and nobody was around. I took her hand, and led her outside, without saying a word. I grabbed a towel and my toiletry bag on the way out.

She looked at me puzzled, but seemed agreeable to follow.

I led her down the hall, and at the bathroom (men only, as it was a male floor), I stopped and went inside, alone. The coast was clear.

I returned, scooped her up fireman style, and carried her quickly into one of the four shower stalls, pulling the flimsy vinyl curtain shut behind me. I hung the towel on the hook, stepped into the shower stall, and kissed her deeply.

Her eyes alit, as she tried not to laugh, but we were quiet as mice. I turned on the shower. Then, I unbuttoned her blouse and unclasped her bra, as she wriggled free of her shoes, tight jeans, and panties. I put her clothes on the bench, as well as my own. She stepped into the shower. With my soap in hand, I followed her.

The water sprayed all over us, and we heard voices. I knew them both (everyone knows everyone, as there were only thirty-two people on the floor, and 500 in the entire school). We heard them talk, heard them pee, flush, wash their hands, and leave. We were quiet and still, slowly rubbing soap over each other. The lights were unusually bright. Then, she knelt down in the falling water, while I blocked the spray with my back, took hold of my shaft, and began sucking me off.

Someone else came in, turned on the water, and then left. Likely, he was an oboist just getting water to soak his reeds. Again, we were carefully quiet, her lips and tongue gliding over me slowly, but silently.

I stood her up, held her close, and soaped up her back, and soaked her hair, while her fingers continued doing her work. Then I lifted her -- her lean, soapy body leaning against mine, the water beating down on us, and then slid her down until I penetrated. I pressed her back against the wall, and carefully, slowly thrust in and pulled out.

It was precarious and slippery, standing. I was worried I might fall over or drop her, so I laid her down on the floor, and then finally tore loose.

I was getting close, and so was she, so I plowed into her fast and deep, and we came together silently, her giving my bicep a hickey as she came. We waited just a minute, then rinsed off, and toweled each other dry. We got dressed, though I kept her bra in my pocket. I made sure that the coast was clear, and then we ran back to my room for a giggly and more relaxing round two.

After this incident, semi-public sex became a habit for us. Don’t worry; I will share additional stories.