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My university, a private Christian university, housed the men and women in separate buildings with one entrance each, both manned by a security guard checking student ids and taking names on a clipboard at all hours of the day and night. During the spring and summer we could go out into the woods behind campus and lie down on a blanket and enjoy a natural privacy, but during the fall and winter there were no outlets for our thirst. Even if we could bear the cold, without the leaves the woods were exposed.
In December 2014, my freshman year, I awoke to a woman screaming outside my ground-floor window. I darted out in my pajamas and found Amy curled up on her side, clutching her ankle. My friend Jack was desperately reeling a rope back into his window, two floors above my own. I could tell from Amy’s scraped-up hands that she had been trying to climb up it. These are the lengths to which we would go to feel some skin against our skin.
If I had found a partner, I wouldn’t have had any way to spend time with her. So I took an on-campus job with the sanitation staff. It had its indignities, but it had perks too: a ring of keys. The two dormitories and the administrative building were all connected underground by the staff parking garage, where we stored all the cleaner and mops and buckets and whatnot. My keys to the garage were in effect keys to the women’s dormitory, entry to a secret passageway.
I was too eager with my new access to wait until I met a girl, though. Instead I invited my friends to the staff lounge, which was a hole-in-the-wall room attached to the garage. At first I just invited Jack and Chandler. Friday nights after the staff went home we would push their four couches together into a square and then sit in the square taking shot after shot of rotgut rum. When Chandler invited his girlfriend Aileen along, and Aileen invited Amy and Sarah, and so on, the gatherings grew to a size I couldn’t keep track of. There were too many names to recall.
At 10:30pm I would find fifteen guys waiting for me to unlock to the door to the garage. After dropping them off in the lounge, I would let the women in from their building’s garage entry. There were always more women than men, at least twenty waiting for me on the other side of the door most nights.
Put thirty sex-starved and oppressively supervised college students in a small room late at night with no authorities around and give them alcohol, and you’d be surprised at how little transpires. The stories of breaking into dorms or ordering fake ids to rent hotel rooms all involved couples—a specific pressure between two people building up to some intolerable boiling point that they had to release or die trying. In the lounge, we drank and asked each other intrusive questions. We flirted. We put hands on shoulders and then pulled them back just as fast. We straddled the lines but never crossed them. Our conditioning was strong, and the presence of others shackled our courage.
Until Amy started betting on dice rolls. It was, in retrospect, a thin veil for lascivious designs. But back then it was a welcome excuse to let our inhibitions go. She would point at some boy, and challenge him to choose even or odd. The loser had to take off their shirt and they couldn’t have it back for an hour. Within a few weeks it was a ratified custom, and Aileen started bringing a portable coded safe to contain esat escort the forfeited clothes until a one-hour timer elapsed.
Jack and Amy were frequent opponents in this bet. In our freshman year they had been a couple, a conspicuous one, feeding each other strawberries on a picnic blanket on the campus green, holding hands on their walks between classes, and—at disciplinary cost—kissing in front of the dorms when they parted for the night. Jack would often tell me during that time that he was saving for a ring, and ramble to me about the logistics of their future marriage and how it was good their families both lived in Georgia, as it would make holiday visits with the future kids easier. When Amy chose Nathan—who also frequents the lounge sessions—for her organic chemistry partner, their relationship came undone. Jack did not understand and could not be led to understand why she chose a man for a partner (instead of woman) and tried to impose a ban. “That’s it. I’ve decided to impose a ban,” he told me, before marching over to the women’s building. It didn’t work. His jealousy and later his anger exceeded her patience. She challenged him to the dice rolls in these secret underground meetings to taunt him, to stir his jealousy by showing herself off shirtless to the rest of us and making it feel like his fault. He couldn’t say no; she’d just challenge someone else and maybe take off her shirt for them, and that would make him feel even worse.
Amy was aware of her effect on men. If you spoke to her you would feel that she was paying attention only to you, even in a loud room full of distractions. If someone spoke to her while she was listening to you, she would tell them to wait until you had finished. But before you did, with nothing external having distracted her, she would dart her head away, her long dark hair whipping in the air behind her. Sometimes she darted her head because she thought of something to say to someone, and other times her own thoughts captured her attention. No one else’s expectations, even the simplest like paying attention in conversation, mattered to her. I wondered if she had been like that before Jack tried to control her, or if she developed that disposition in response to his oppression. When Amy wasn’t looking in my direction, I would study her shoulders, trace her side’s curve down to the soft lip of flesh pushed out by the tight belt holding up her skirt, and my eyes would fix on her belt, that stubborn obstacle.
The limiting factor on our sexual ambitions in the lounge, it turned out, was a shared assumption of everyone else’s propriety. I was the one who broke the spell. Amy had just pointed at Nathan and challenged him to a game of chess for their shirts, and I said, “you should wager more.”
A murmur of assent traveled around the room.
“Oh yeah? Ok,” Amy said. “Everything. A game of chess for everything we’re wearing.”
Jack gripped his forehead in visible anguish over the prospect of Amy’s loss—her beautiful body, which he could no longer call his or even hold, exposed to us all.
“Still more,” I said. How far had we been waiting for permission to go? What would we be willing to do here in this underground room hidden from God?
Nathan felt his jaw, then rifled through some supply drawers. He held up duct tape. “Wrists and ankles.”
Amy etimesgut escort crossed her arms. The room was so quiet we could hear the second hand ticking on the analog clock.
Jack clutched his head with both hands in a low squat, rocking back and forth.
Amy stood up. “Not enough. More.”
I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. More? What even was more?
She continued, “If you lose, the girls get to do what they want to you with their hands. Just their hands.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes. “And… And same for you with the guys?”
“Same for me with the guys.”
My chess knowledge was and still is sparse. For the first ten turns of the game I couldn’t tell who was in the lead. Tension built in the middle of the board and neither of them took any pieces. Amy moved in jerks, each move instant as if she didn’t even need to look at Nathan’s. Every time she moved a piece it concerned him, and he studied it before choosing a response. While I didn’t know chess, I knew she was tilting. I knew moving that fast was stupid, careless, fearful. She may have been able to beat him in a game for shirts, but once she sat down at the board under the pressure of their duel’s extreme stakes, she could not think.
Nathan captured Amy’s queen, and she became so angry and short-sighted she moved many pieces into direct attack, one after the other, decimating her own position. The checkmate came in under five minutes.
Aileen, the instant the game ended, clicked open the safe and whistled at Amy, who sat frozen at the board, staring at her toppled king, all her muscles tense. As if weak, she struggled to stand up and push the chair back. She leaned on the table to achieve a standing position, her head low and her eyes still aimed at the board.
Nathan leaned across the table and pinched her shirt. “You owe me this,” he said, then tugged on her skirt, “and this too. And more. Chop Chop.”
For a moment Amy did not move, and then tried to dart through the crowd, out of the room.
Aileen caught Amy by the shirt and recruited other girls to hold her back. “Would you have made him do it, had you lost?” Aileen asked her.
In answer, Amy took a step back and raised her arms overhead.
Aileen pulled Amy’s shirt off, and the other girls unbuckled her skirt and undressed the rest of her. I only glanced away from her body once, to plot my fastest route to her through the packed room. I wanted to get there first and put my hands on her thighs, to just place them there in suggestion of what I wanted to do, without force, while she was bound, to assert something on her she could not turn away from.
When they tossed her bra aside, Amy covered her chest with folded arms, but then they held her wrists behind her back. They slid her underwear down her legs and threw it into the safe with the rest of her clothes before shutting and locking it. With the duct tape they taped her to a chair, taped each of her ankles to a chair leg and taped her wrists together behind the chair’s back, so she could not close her legs, or interfere with whoever put their hands on her.
I ignored Jack, who was still rocking back and forth in fear, and walked toward her. No one else, not even Nathan, had moved to touch her. I pulled up a chair in front of her and slid my hand up from her knee, etlik escort in a smooth, gradual motion toward her waist. This time she could not look away from me. Her breathing changed when I cupped her breasts in my hands and massaged her nipples with my thumbs. She hardened under my touch.
Amy shook hair into her face to hide behind it, but I gently tucked it behind her ears and then grabbed her jaw. It was pleasure I had recognized on her face, and which she wanted to hide. I understood why she had proposed these stakes. This was her fantasy, to be subjected to pleasure to many men, helpless against an ambush of their lust. It had to be the consequence of a lost game, a penalty imposed on her by others, because she was too ashamed to ask for it.
I waved Jack over and instructed him to stand behind her and hold her breasts and massage her nipples gently, as I had been doing. With a confused expression and tears running down his face, he pushed his way into the center of the crowd and followed my instruction. Later, I hoped he would understand I was trying to do right by him—someone was going to pleasure the woman of his obsession. Surely it was better to take part than to be excluded?
Amy tried to shake herself free of the chair when Jack touched her. “Get the fuck off me, Jack!”
He leaned in and spoke into her ear, “what’s that girl? You lost a bet?” Jack pinched her nipples.
She began to say something else in protest, but Jack squeezed her chest, and what came out was instead an involuntary confession of desire, an inarticulate melody.
Jack laughed and wiped his tears off on his arm. The more Amy squirmed, the harder he squeezed, and the thing Amy had resented most became total: Jack’s control over her.
When I slid my hand down Amy’s torso, across her belly, and past her waist, she almost tipped the chair back trying to escape me, but I held it in place and continued sliding my hand down her body without effort—duct tape is hard to break.
What I found, I had to announce, but first I told Nathan to take care of Amy’s mouth. He covered it with his palm, muffling her words. Once she could not contradict me, I told everyone, “Amy’s soaking wet. Amy’s loving this.”
Her muted squealing to argue with me made no sense to anyone, but what they could make out clearly was the sound of her moaning when I massaged her clit.
More men put hands on her, some just patting their hands around her abs and back in a mania of discovery, others squeezing her thighs, massaging her feet, or softly stroking a finger around in her outer ear. Still more just held her hands and the legs of the chair so she could not writhe too freely.
Some twenty minutes in, I could feel in her muscle spasms that she was racing toward an orgasm, so I told the girls, who were all watching, unashamed of their voyeurism, “Amy’s about to come, and it’s going to be hard. She’s losing her mind she loves it so much.”
Before Amy crossed the edge, I slowed my rhythm down to frustrate her and imprison her in pleasure a moment longer. I wet two of my fingers inside of her. One of them I kept inside, massaging her in a come-here motion. The other, I slipped out and crawled, bit by bit, toward her ass. It took two extra men to hold her down when she tried to stand up out of the chair. It happened despite her resistance. I didn’t even get inside; she came as soon as I touched her rim, dousing my palm in hot, thin squirts.
“She needs rest,” I said, once she had stopped.
We stood up and took our hands off of her and let her catch her breath. Through her heaving, unclear at first but more clear each time she repeated it, she said, “don’t stop. Keep going.”
And so we kept going.
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