The Choice Read online

  I picked up my keys so that I’d be able to pretend I’d been on my way out if she did catch me, telling myself I’d just have another quick peek. Very carefully, I opened my door. Hers was at an angle to mine, the keyhole temptingly close. I could duck down with half my body still in my own room, allowing me to retreat in an instant. Still I hesitated, listening, but all I could hear was her music, which now seemed compellingly sexual, drawing me to watch.

  My resistance gave way and I put my eye to the keyhole. She was as before; her slim, languid body stretched out on the bed, her mouth a little open and her eyes closed, an image of sensual bliss that had my tummy fluttering. Her hand was still down her knickers as well, but her fingers were now moving to a fast, excited rhythm, making little bumps in the black silk as she circled her clitoris.

  She’d dropped her book, which lay open on the bed beside her face, but as I watched her eyes came open again, to scan the page in front of her. A shiver ran through her and she suddenly shifted position, onto her back, lifting and opening her legs. One hand went to cup a high, pointed breast, stroking the stiff red nipple at the top. I’d been in the same position myself often enough, giving me a flush of embarrassment at the thought of how I must have looked.

  That didn’t stop me. She was going to come, and I was going to watch, however bad it made me feel. I wanted to touch myself too, but that was a step too far. She was a woman, after all, and, however beautiful, however much I might appreciate her body aesthetically, I was not going to play with myself while I watched her. That was out of the question.

  Again she moved, as suddenly as before, flipping herself over on the bed into a kneeling position, her long, slender thighs braced apart, her back curved into an elegant swan’s neck to push her neatly rounded bottom high, her cheeks bulging in the black silk of her knickers. Now I could imagine what she was thinking, of a man behind her, about to push himself deep inside as she offered her sex in that most wanton of poses.

  I’d been in the same position myself often enough, for Ewan and for others, completely open and uninhibited. It felt deeply erotic, and deeply feminine, rude too, with everything showing for my lover’s enjoyment, and also submissive. She felt the same, I was sure, because she had reached back and very slowly slid her knickers down over her bottom, just as if she was exposing herself to a man for penetration.

  She’d certainly exposed herself to me, and I couldn’t help but think of how I’d look in the same pose, my knickers pulled down over my bottom to show off every intimate detail between my cheeks and between my thighs, my sex ready to be entered, just as hers was, moist and open, ready to have my lover’s beautiful cock slid in to the very hilt. With that thought my will snapped and I gave in to my vivid sexual imagination, always my weakness.

  My hand went between my legs, to find the soft shape of my sex beneath my jeans, my fingers pressing hard to rub at myself, every bit as rude and wanton as she was. I wished I was in the same position, my thoughts running away with me as my excitement rose, imagining us side by side, kneeling on the bed, bottoms up and knickers down with two forceful young men behind us, our boyfriends, erect cocks in their hands, gloating over our exposure as they got ready to enter us.

  She was coming, her body shivering with excitement, her fingers busy with her sex, a sight at once so rude and so compelling that it tipped me over the edge. I bit my lip in a frantic effort to stop myself crying out as it hit me, my mind still burning with the fantasy I’d created, now stronger and ruder still. We were still together, poised to be entered from behind, but the young men weren’t our boyfriends, just two arrogant bastards from the college, who’d got us drunk and teased us into playing cards for our clothes, got us stripped topless and had us suck their cocks, made us kneel and stick our bums in the air, pulled down our knickers and taken turns to fuck us both.

  It was that last awful detail that really got to me, the idea of being shared by two men, and not in private but side by side with my beautiful neighbour so that each of us knew exactly how rude the other had been. I’d lost my balance as I climaxed, sitting hard on the floor and knocking against my door to make it swing back and crash against its hinges. She had to have heard, and I scrambled quickly back into my room on all fours, my legs still shaking from the force of my orgasm.

  I was sure she was going to catch me, and my face was burning hot as I scrambled to my feet, my blushes a sure giveaway that I’d been watching her. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking either, and I felt so hot and wet between my thighs I was sure I’d have a telltale damp patch on the front of my jeans. The only sensible thing to do was to get into the shower, but as I stripped off common sense slowly began to return.

  She couldn’t possibly know I’d been watching her, and all she’d have heard was the bang of my door. Even if she’d guessed, she was hardly going to stride in, wearing nothing but her fancy French knickers, and accuse me of being a Peeping Thomasina, even though that was exactly what I was.

  2

  MY GUILTY FEELINGS didn’t last very long. I’d only just sorted myself out after my shower when she knocked on the door to introduce herself. After that things took off at such a pace that I had no time to fret over my bad behaviour. She wasn’t a Victoria, or a Valerie, but a Violet – Violet Aubrey, and she was a graduate, in the second year of a D.Phil. in Fine Art. She was also fascinating; so languid and sensual in her manner that it was easy to see her not as a student of art, but as an artist’s muse.

  I knew immediately that she didn’t have the sort of connections I was supposed to be making, but she knew the college inside out and was keen to show me around. On the Sunday evening I was in her room, sat on the bed with my back to the wall sipping coffee as she explained how to cope with Freshers’ Week.

  ‘… says in the Handbook that there’s something for everybody, which is true, and I know you can’t hope to do everything, but do try to sample as many different things as possible.’

  ‘Thanks, but I know what I need to do, and what to avoid.’

  ‘You’re very confident, but do keep an open mind or you might miss out on something that changes your whole life. How do you mean, what to avoid?’

  ‘Anything that could come back to haunt me in later life. I’m going into politics.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She didn’t sound very happy, let alone impressed, but quickly brightened up again as she went on. ‘Keep an open mind, that’s all. When I first came up I was such a little mouse I hardly knew what to do.’

  ‘I can’t believe that!’

  ‘A lot has happened since then. So you’re going to be a university student, are you?’

  The way she’d suddenly changed the topic of conversation intrigued me, as if she wanted to avoid talking about something, but so did her question, which I didn’t understand at all.

  ‘What do you mean? Aren’t we all university students?’

  ‘Some students stick very much with their college, like the rowing club. Others are more involved with wider university life; the Chamber and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me, or it will be once I get my feet on the ground.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to take you very long.’

  She was so easy to talk to that I was tempted to explain my grand plan, but at that moment somebody knocked on the door. She went to answer it, opening the door with her normal casual, friendly manner, only to suddenly stiffen and move hastily out into the tiny lobby between our doors and the ‘oak’ as she called the big door leading onto the staircase. I only caught a glimpse of her visitor, but enough to see that it was a man, of middling height, in his thirties and so almost certainly too old to be a student. What really struck me was his face, which was calm and distinguished but with a hint of something else; amusement, even disdain.

  It seemed very likely that he was her tutor, but her obvious embarrassment at his visit and the urgent whispered conversation between them made me wonder if they were having an affair. I couldn
’t resist listening, but the heavy door and their low voices made it impossible to catch more than the occasional word so I soon gave up. After a moment staring at the wall, I found myself scanning her bookshelves as I tried to work out what she’d been reading while she was playing with herself.

  All I could remember was that the spine had been black with white letters too small to be easily read and that there had been some sort of abstract art design on the cover. Several looked about right, but all of them belonged to a collection of French classics I’d never heard of but at least one of which was presumably quite juicy. La Femme et le Pantin by Pierre Louÿs seemed the most likely candidate, but I wasn’t even sure what the title meant and if it was in the original language there wasn’t much point in borrowing it, as my schoolgirl French couldn’t get me much further than asking the way to the post office.

  I was just wondering if I dared sneak a closer look when Violet came back in. She looked agitated, and while I didn’t want to seem pushy I felt I ought to say something.

  ‘Was that your tutor?’

  ‘My ex-tutor.’

  She didn’t sound too happy about it, and immediately changed the subject, leaving me intrigued.

  For the next few days I had very little time to speculate on Violet’s private life and not a great deal of time to see Violet. Freshers’ Week is the week set aside for new undergraduates to find their feet, to meet their tutors and colleagues, join whatever societies interest them and generally find out about college life and the university. I knew exactly what I needed to do or, at least, what Dad had told me I ought to do. All his life he’d been a Liberal, always the main opposition party in our neck of the woods, where most people distrusted Labour and thought that Conservatives had cloven hooves concealed within their highly polished shoes. That was all very well, but the chances of belonging to a party in government were close to nil and, besides, I had to go my own way.

  The question was: which way? The two main parties were a lot closer than they’d been in Dad’s day, so if I was going to abandon his ideals it wasn’t easy to decide which way to jump. The Conservatives were on the way up, but with three years before I graduated and perhaps as long again before I could expect to make any real impact it was all too likely that my first chance to challenge for a nomination would come just as they started on their way back down, with maybe ten more years until the situation reversed once more. Labour were unpopular and likely to be out of power within the year, but I might well be able to ride their fortunes back to the top.

  I had a week to make my choice and held back, keeping my own opinions to myself while I tried to decide who to join. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to ignore another piece of Dad’s advice, not to let myself get distracted by the boys. Not that I intended to let myself get distracted, but it was obvious to me that I’d have a much better chance of success in my chosen career if I was with a wealthy and supportive male. I had three years to make my choice and, while I didn’t want to get a reputation as a slut, I could see no reason not to start early.

  The tricky bit wasn’t finding a suitable man, but choosing between them. Just walking around the Freshers’ Fair presented me with a bewildering choice of first-rate masculine talent. The boat-club stand alone was enough to leave me weak at the knees; crowded with lean muscular young men, not one of them under six foot and some of them in kit that left very little to the imagination. Given a free choice I’d have picked four or five of the best and invited them back to my room to take turns with me, but even if they’d been likely to go for it I just couldn’t risk that sort of thing, not unless I could cope with one of them publishing some ‘interesting reminiscences’ twenty years later. I couldn’t, but testing them out one at a time was a different matter. Nobody is expected to be celibate nowadays. In fact, too puritanical an image can do almost as much damage as the reverse, especially when it comes to getting male colleagues to give you a friendly leg up.

  I was still trying to choose between a blond man who might well have been used as the model for a Greek statue and another, darker, taller and with an intense expression and the most piercing eyes I’d ever seen, when my mind was made up for me. Both moved away from the boat-club stall within a few seconds of each other, the blond young god to the Gay Soc stall, where he immediately kissed the man running it, and the tall dark man to a stall dealing with commodities trading and run by a man who looked like a highly intelligent weasel with glasses.

  My tall dark man immediately asked a question which triggered a complicated explanation from the weasel. I moved closer, listening with what I hoped was an intelligent expression and waiting for my moment. Eventually the weasel stopped talking and turned to me to speak.

  ‘Can I help at all?’

  ‘This seems unusual for a society.’

  His voice was dripping condescension as he replied. ‘Not really, although it is really only for the wealthier students.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Essentially, we form an investment co-operative, allowing us to trade in stock, futures and so forth while keeping our overheads to a minimum and gaining experience on the markets. It’s really aimed at students who are going into finance and the minimum investment is ten thousand pounds.’

  The last comment was obviously intended to put me off, and as that was more than Dad had given me for the entire year it would have done, if I’d been remotely interested in the first place. I nodded and put a question to my tall dark man.

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Yes, undoubtedly, although more for the experience than as a way of providing income. It’s also a chance to make contacts in the city.’

  ‘I’m hoping to go into politics, but nevertheless …’

  I trailed off, hopefully leaving them with the impression that investing ten thousand pounds was at least an option for me. The weasel went back to his explanation, now making an effort to include me, but I’d made my opening move and left after a couple more minutes. My tall dark man stayed put for at least ten before moving on to the coffee machine. I made straight for him.

  ‘What do you think? Are you going to join them?’

  ‘I think so, for a year at least.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. It seems risky and I’m really looking for a different set of contacts.’

  ‘I’d advise against it then.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Poppy, by the way, Poppy Miller, first year PPE at St Boniface.’

  ‘Stephen Mitchell. Hi.’

  He extended one huge hand, which completely enveloped mine as I took it. It was all too easy to imagine that same grip on my hips or shoulders. Persuading him to take me to bed was going to be a pleasure, but I didn’t want to rush.

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Chemistry, at Emmanuel.’

  ‘Not economics?’

  ‘No. I applied for my strongest subject, which was the best way to get in.’

  ‘That’s what the careers advisor at school suggested.’

  ‘But you went for PPE?’

  For a moment I thought I’d made a mistake by implying he was less intelligent than me and I backpedalled hastily. ‘It was a risk. Maybe a stupid one.’

  ‘Not if you want to go into politics. It’s very hard to switch courses onto PPE.’

  A lie seemed like the best answer. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yes. If you’re on a popular course you can change to almost anything, but it’s next to impossible to switch onto a popular course, otherwise everybody …’

  I let him talk, although Dad had explained it all to me a dozen times, and watched his eyes, hoping they’d stray to the front of the bright tight cashmere sweater I’d chosen that morning with the deliberate intention of attracting male attention. Sure enough, he was having considerable difficulty talking to my face and not to my tits, despite his best efforts to be polite. I folded my arms to give him a better view and flicked my hair as if to get it out of my eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed as
he swallowed and I knew he was mine.

  Social conventions are such a pain. In an ideal world I’d have responded to his interest by pulling up my top and bra to let him have a proper look. He’d have given me a squeeze and a kiss on each nipple to say hello, then it would have been off to bed for an afternoon of good rude sex. Unfortunately, I had to play by the rules.

  It took me two days, first a drink together, then an afternoon watching him on the river followed by dinner at Browns. He put his arm around me as we crossed St Giles and I responded, more than happy to show interest. Emmanuel was closer than St Boniface and we soon reached the lodge. I knew I should kiss him goodnight, with just enough passion to leave him eager, but I was feeling mellow and horny.

  There were a lot of people around, but that’s never bothered me, just the opposite, and as he took me in his arms and tilted my head up to make our mouths meet I couldn’t help but let my lips come open. He needed no further encouragement, his grip tightening and one big hand slipping down to cup my bottom. I let him squeeze for a moment and then gave him a gentle pat of admonition as I broke away. There was doubt in his voice as he spoke.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Why not.’

  He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I was. Having – hopefully – shown him that I wasn’t easy, it was time to show him that I was good. I didn’t want any coffee either, because one more cup and it was going to be coming out of my ears.

  His room was in a Victorian annexe at the back of his college, one of a line ranged along a top corridor that looked like something out of Dickens. He kept his arm around me even as he unlocked the door, and kissed me again as soon as we were inside. This time I let myself melt, giving way to my urgency as our mouths opened together, willing to let him touch where he liked, or to strip me, even to put me straight down on his cock the way really forceful men sometimes do.