The Roommate 🤍 2.9.1

In which Kate joins the scene

“Honey,” Charlotte calls from the kitchen.

I’m in my office working on my computer. “Yeah?” I call back.

“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” she says, walking down the hall towards me.

“Okay,” I say, turning to face the door.

She enters holding a handful of mail, topless in a pair of booty shorts.

“Is the good news that I get to see your boobies?” I ask.

She looks down and then back up. “It’s Topless Tuesday,” she says. “Don’t you check the calendar?”

I make a gesture with my hand that says, Of course.

She smiles and says, “No. Bad news first. I’m going to be gone for three weeks on a closed set shoot.”

“Oh,” I say, genuinely crestfallen. This usually means filming nude scenes, which means long, long days and close, intimate settings with minimal amounts of people in and out of the set. Carefully controlled and exhausting for actors, and no personal time except on weekends unless the director or crew can’t keep up with the shooting schedule in which case overruns are common resulting in weekend reshoots.

“Which means I also won’t be here until the day before Christmas,” she says, wincing.

“Aww,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “I really can’t come?”

“You know how it is,” she says, her seriousness slightly undercut by her nudity. “I’ll be done late at night just in time to hop in bed, and then up at the crack of dawn to work out and get to set. It’s not that I don’t want you there...”

“It’s that I’ll go crazy. Yeah. I remember.” We’ve tried it before, and it wasn’t great. One of the only fights we’ve ever had resulted from that combination of long days and short nights one after the other, and that was only a ten-day shoot.

“It’s better if I go to ground, focus, and get it done. It’s not a big budget movie, but it’s a good role for me, I think.”
“You don’t need to justify yourself,” I say, rising and walking to her. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. I’ll have the tree decorated and ready when you come home. We can have a great holiday after you’re rested up.”

Charlotte takes me in her arms and squeezes me. I kiss her forehead and then her lips. Then I turn to go sit down.

“Now for the good news,” she says, going to sit down on the love seat opposite my desk.

I sit. “What’s the good news?”

“I just happen to have found someone who needs a place to stay for the month of December.”

I turn to her. “And how would that information be good news for me, hmm?” I ask. “I, who like my solitude? I, who prefer to be left alone?”

She rolls her eyes. “You, who starts talking to himself after an hour at home alone? You, who doesn’t like to eat at restaurants or go to movies by himself? Is this who we’re talking about?”

I smile in spite of myself. “I really don’t want a house guest.”

She grins and puts her hands between her knees, rocking forward. “I really think you do.”

“It’s not a dog, is it?”

“No.”

“Is it your mother?”

“If we’re going to play twenty questions, you should strategize better,” she says.

“Are you going to tell me who it is if I guess correctly?”

“No.” She cackles.

I laugh. “All right,” I say, turning back to my laptop. “Play your games.”

“I will do that,” she says, rising. “I’m putting together a very fun game for the two of you to play, in fact. And it’s got a challenge attached to it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she says, leaning back and cupping her breasts. “I want to see if you can make it twenty-four hours without fucking her before the sex games begin.”

“That’s not your usual type of skulduggery,” I say mildly.
“I know!” she giggles. “I’m going to go work on the game right now. But first,” she says, crawling under my desk in front of me, “all this toplessness has got me horny. And I see that bulge in your pants.”

“Do you want me to sit on the couch?”

“No,” she says, tugging at the waistband of my athletic shorts until I help her get them down. “I want you to see how many words you can write while I pump your dick for hot cum.”

“Probably not very many,” I groan as she takes my hardening cock in her hand and starts to lick my balls. “Oh, shit. That’s good, Charlie.”

“Mmm,” she says. “I agree. Now get those fingers tapping.”

Shall we take care of this, before we take care of you? ❤️‍🔥

***

The day Charlotte leaves happens to be a day I have production meetings in the city. As a writer, I mostly just listen in, weighing in on decisions that would change story based on budgets or time constraints. Not the most exciting way to spend a day, but one more shovel full of sand into the mold that everyone pours their talents into to one day cast a solid piece of art from.

By the time I get home it’s nearly dinner and until I park in the garage I have momentarily forgotten that Charlotte won’t be there, and I’m surprised to see that there’s a white coupe parked in the driveway blocking her side of the garage. I try to think of who might be here and then I remember the mysterious house guest Charlotte had teased a few weeks ago. She really never brought it up again.

I enter the house and drop my bag, calling out, “Hello?”

I hear no response.

I walk through the living room to the kitchen beyond, seeing no one.

“Maybe she’s out,” I say, and head up to my bedroom to change. I think a swim is in order.

I change my clothes, use the bathroom, and then grab a towel and prepare to head out. I walk out of my bedroom door, stop, turn around and walk back in. On the back of the bedroom door is a full length six foot poster of Kate Caldwell.

“What the fuck?” I say to myself. It’s probably my favorite shot of her, standing wearing gold chains and beads around her neck and waist, an arm across her naked breasts, looking like a goddess. Surely the wildest Greek imaginings hadn’t produced an Aphrodite as sexual as the creature on this poster. But where did it come from? I could swear it hadn’t been there this morning or last night. I look up and around the room with new eyes and notice several framed magazine covers and pages, each professionally done, each holding a different image of none other than Kate Caldwell.

Early Christmas present, I think. I have the best girlfriend ever. I trot down the stairs and pad out to the pool, dropping my towel on a chair and jumping in. I swim a couple of lengths under the warm sun before floating on my back calmly in the deep end. I love the feeling of weightlessness that comes with floating in the water like this. It is utterly peaceful.

“I don’t want to scare you, but, hi,” says a voice from beside the pool.

“Whoa!” I say, snapping my head up and thrashing my arms and legs involuntarily. Blinking in the sunlight I look up and around to see who spoke.

Laying on a chair by the pool in an orange bikini is Kate Caldwell.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m dreaming. Hello.”

She is covering her mouth and giggling. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that you didn’t see me until it was too late, and I didn’t want to startle you. I don’t know how you didn’t see me here.”

“Dreams are funny that way,” I say, swimming to the shallow end of the pool and standing when I can reach the bottom. “Perception and expectation.”

I walk over and pick up my towel, drying my face with it and looking over at her.

“I’m Jack,” I say.

“Kate,” she says. She sits up and waves.

“Nice to meet you, Kate.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she says, still smiling.

I walk to a chair near hers and sit down. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Not if you ask a Californian. They call this winter.”

“They do, don’t they?” I say.

“It’s sixty-eight degrees,” she says. “Sunbathing weather in Michigan.”

“Swimming weather in Maine,” I say, gesturing to the pool.

There’s a moment of silence between us.
“This is a nice dream,” I say. “Not all dreams are pleasant, but this one is good.”

“Are you trying to get me to say, ‘You aren’t dreaming’?” she asks.

“Oh,” I say. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to say.”

Kate giggles.

I look at her, trying desperately to maintain eye contact. “Seriously, though. I had no idea you were going to be here. That was quite a jump scare.”

“Didn’t Charlotte tell you?”

“She told me a couple weeks ago that she knew someone who needed a place to stay for the month of December, but she wouldn’t tell me who.”

“Really?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

“Why not?”
“Well, because I would have gone--” I stop dead. I was about to say something about how I would have gone crazy with anticipation. But then I would have to explain how I’ve grown accustomed to every beautiful woman I meet eventually having wild sex with me.

“--crazy trying to... prepare... the house,” I finish lamely.

Kate looks at me with amusement dancing in her eyes. “Good thing she didn’t tell you, then.”

I clear my throat, feeling my penis start to fill with blood. “Yes. Well. You know how she likes to play her games,” I say.

Kate nods. “I’ve known Charlotte for a long time.” She looks over at the house and then up at the sky, and I shamelessly look at her cleavage. The bikini isn’t overly revealing, but her breasts are bursting from all sides in exciting ways.

“Why do you need a place to stay?” I ask.

She smiles at me. “Renovations at my place. I didn’t want to rent an apartment, and Charlotte said you have a guest bedroom. Who would’ve thought that she’d be gone all month?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah. That part stinks.”

“Well, thank you for agreeing to let me stay.”

“Sure,” I say. “I only have one rule. When a supermodel asks to stay the night, I say yes.”

She laughs. “You’re funny. It’ll be a good month. We’ll make the most of it,” she says, laying back. “Charlotte says she put together a game of sorts for us.”

“A game?” I ask.

“Yes, but we’re not supposed to start it until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” I say. What sort of game could she possibly have made for us? “Well, I’m gonna keep swimming.”

“Kay,” says Kate, not opening her eyes.

I lay my towel out and jump back in the pool, grateful to have hidden my very visible erection under the water. I do some more laps, trying to clear my head. This will not turn into three weeks of free use with Kate Caldwell. That’s not how the world works. She’s a friend. Charlotte didn’t say anything about it because Kate is not that kind of girl.

My head believes me, by my balls do not. I groan internally, imagining three weeks of constant erections around the house. Stealing into bathrooms to masturbate furiously and relieve the pressure. Sexting at odd hours with Charlotte when she’s not exhausted from her movie shoot, but otherwise going unsatisfied. I glance over at Kate who is still laying on her back with her eyes closed. Three weeks of seeing her out here. Her boobs look incredible, she seems to have Charlotte and Lucy’s power of defying gravity. The cut of her bikini is incredibly flattering to her figure, from her legs to her flat belly. I won’t be able to use the pool and the hot tub because my swim shorts, while baggy, are thin. Fuck! I’ll have to just go jerk off in the other room five times a day. I’ll have to…

I realize that I’m staring at Kate and my hand is on my cock, rubbing it through my shorts. No, no, no, I think. Get a hold of yourself!

I already have a hold on myself.

Stop it!

I try to float on my back again to calm myself, and then after a few seconds realize I’m basically presenting my cock to the world like a shark’s dorsal fin. Damn it. I go back to treading water and try a dive, upending myself with my legs in the air to push me down. I enjoy being under the water, sitting on the bottom for long stretches with weights. Unfortunately after ten seconds my lungs feel like they’re going to explode because my heart is hammering along so fast.

This is stupid, I think. You’re a man. Act like it. So I come up with the intention of calming my breathing, willing my erection away, and going about my business. As I break the surface and wipe my eyes, I’m feeling good about this new plan. Until I glance over at Kate.

Kate is laying face down on the beach chair, a sort of upholstered chaise lounger, and as I look over I see her bikini strings flop to either side. She’s undone her top. Kate is lying topless less than twenty feet away from me.

Now I fear that my cock is going to rip through the thin fabric of my shorts. I resolve to make a break for it while she isn’t looking. It’s just a boner. If she looks at me I’ll shrug and give a Mad Magazine smile. What, me worry?

I climb out of the pool, cursing myself for leaving my towel next to her, trying to be as quiet as I can without sounding like I’m trying to be stealthy. I walk casually but quietly over, holding my breath, and pluck up the towel and turn to tiptoe run away.

“Oh,” she says, picking her head up slightly. “I know we don’t really know each other yet, but I figure since you live with a model you get it.”

“What?” I ask without looking back.

“Oh,” she says. “Would it be weird if I asked you to put some lotion on my back?”

I turn and see that she’s holding up a bottle of suntan lotion.

I do live with a model and therefore I do know how important their skin is to them. Where I am only looking to avoid uncomfortable burns, they are protecting a valuable asset from blemishes, scars and melanomas. This is less like someone asking me to wash their car and more like asking me to put storm shutters over their windows when they’re out of town during hurricane season. You don’t just say no.

“Yep,” I squeak. “I can do that. Not weird. No problem.”

At least she’ll be facing away, I think. I step closer and take the bottle from her, reminding myself that the real consequence of not breathing will not be passing out but rather suddenly heaving large whoops of air as I touch her back. Like a maniac.

Because Kate is laying on the chair, she’s only a foot or so off the ground, which means there’s really no way to casually lean over and do this. I’m going to have to kneel down next to her, putting my outrageous erection as close to her as physically possible. She has her head turned to the left, and I choose her right side on the hope that she won’t shift.

I kneel down and shake the lotion bottle upside down before opening it up over my left hand. It’s far runnier than I anticipated, and an incredible volume of lotion spurts out. I try to expel air from the bottle and suck some lotion back in, and a little goes back at the expense of a loud, wet, flatulent noise. I wince and cap the bottle, then try to figure out how I’m going to rub this much lotion in on her back. I spread it between both of my hands and am still cupping a copious amount in each palm.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say quickly. “Yes. Just got a little too much here. Everything is a-okay.”

“If you have too much you can do my shoulders and legs, too,” she says.

“Totally,” I say. “Yes. I can do that. Absolutely.”

I see her suppress a smile and feel a thin sheen of sweat break out on my forehead. I realize that the length of time it’s taken me to touch her skin is growing conspicuous, so I extend my hands and touch her for the first time. Her skin is warm and soft and I begin to work the runny lotion in starting at the middle of her back. I spread it outward as I go, moving to the sides of her ribcage, where I can see the compressed ovals of her large breasts sticking out. I am leaning over to her left side when I notice how perilously close the tip of my dick, looking like a can of aerosol spray air freshener sticking straight out against the fabric of my shorts, is to touching her skin. I arch my back and pull my hips away, then go up to her shoulders.

I rub in the lotion and she murmurs, “That feels nice.” I realize I’ve slipped into giving a massage more than a skin-deep application and I move on quickly. I go down her right side, hands still absurdly slippery, and get to her hips. I have done her back and shoulders and my hands are still dripping.

I try to project confidence as I lay my hands on her thighs and slip-and-slide my way down her legs, trying to get the exposed circumference without getting too handsy around the front. I get to her ankles and despite still having lotion dripping from my fingers, I am satisfied that I’m done.

“No tan lines,” she says, and it takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying.

“So,” I say, “you want me to go under the straps?”

“Just pull the ties,” she murmurs into her arm.

There are two ties, one on each side, that hold her bikini bottoms on. I swallow hard.

“Sure,” I croak.

They’re shoestring knots that come undone immediately when I pull them. Then I delicately take her bikini bottoms and put them down between her thighs, exposing her butt. There’s nothing to do now but rub my oily hands all over her ass.

I start at her hips and go down the sides before sliding my hands up to her thighs. I put my hands delicately onto her butt cheeks and try to apply enough pressure without seeming like I’m squeezing. I rub the lotion in, carefully applying it into all the area that the sun shines on, trying to breathe normally while part of my brain is yammering that I’m rubbing Kate Caldwell’s ass. My cock is so hard that I begin to wonder if I really will cum prematurely in my shorts.

I’ve covered all parts of her that I can reasonably assume she would want covered, and I’m trying hard not to look into that gap between her thighs where her pussy lips show.

“All done?” she asks.

“Yep. I think so. Yes. Unless I missed something you know of.”

“No, thank you. Did you use up all the lotion or do you need me to roll over?”

“No!” I yelp, standing. “I did it. Used it. I used it all. Thank you! I’m gonna go hit the shower.”

I turn on my heel, hands very much still dripping lotion and jog to the house, skirting the edge of the pool.

“Your towel!” she calls.

“Oh, it’s okay!” I shout back. “I’ll get it later!”

Once in the safety of the house I slow down so I don’t fall on a tile and break my elbow. I trot into the kitchen, glancing behind me to make sure she’s still laying on the far side of the pool, and then I shuck off my shorts and grab my dick. It’s scary hard, and I only jerk it for about ten seconds before I shoot cum halfway across the kitchen floor, venting pent up arousal and frustration in a primal cry. As always, it is a far less satisfying orgasm than any shared with a beautiful partner, and within moments I feel equal parts abashed and giddy. I pull up my shorts and grab a handful of paper towels and wipe the floor, giggling a bit hysterically, trying to get it done to a point that would be explicable if Kate were to walk in. I throw them away in the garbage and then sit on the floor for a minute with my head on my arms breathing and trying to get myself under control. I can do this. I am not my sex drive. I am in control.

I head upstairs to take a shower and see the posters on the wall anew again and roll my eyes. I have no chance. It’s almost like Charlotte is trying to inundate me and overwhelm me, which I have no doubt that she is. I notice my phone on the nightstand lit up with a message. It’s Charlotte, probably still in transit.

‘Did you tap that ass yet?’

I utter a wild giggle.

‘Not yet. Nice decor change for the bedroom.’

Charlotte replies with a dozen hearts and a tongue emoji, then two more messages in rapid succession.

‘Betcha can’t make it till tomorrow morning.’

‘But try! If you can, it’ll make the next couple weeks more fun.’

I look at this with puzzlement. I try not to be hapless, but I’m not sure if she’s trying to get me to add Kate to my list of conquests tonight or genuinely wanting me to wait. I certainly know she doesn’t care either way, which is something.

🤍🤍🤍

Now, you know I wouldn’t leave you hanging, right? Keep reading…

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Here’s the Next Episode!

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Sanctified is a sweeping serial romance of epic proportions. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for your support!