My name is Jeremy. I’m a sophomore, nineteen, skinny, glasses; the guy nobody remembers. Freshman year was nothing but classes, video games, and jerking off in the dorm showers to fantasies I never thought would come true. Then September rolled around and Becky happened.
She was barefoot on the fountain edge, pale-yellow sundress fluttering, blonde hair wild, freckles like cinnamon sugar across her nose. I mumbled something stupid about her book. She looked up, smiled slow and sweet, Georgia honey, and said, “Hey. I’m Becky.”
Eighteen. Tiny. Barely 5'2". Vanilla lotion thick in the air around her, soft laughter, a drawl that slid over my skin like warm syrup. By the end of the week we were inseparable.
The wanting built like a fever.
Fingers brushing and lingering, static crackling. Thighs pressed together in library booths, heat bleeding through denim. Late-night walks where she’d lean into me, breath hot and sweet on my neck, whispering, “You make me feel all fluttery inside.” Every almost-kiss tasted like her strawberry lip gloss; every accidental grind when she hugged me goodbye left the scent of her arousal soaked into my shirt for hours.
Mid-October she dragged me to her dorm. Roommate gone. Fairy lights glowing amber.
She straddled me on the twin XL, sundress rucked to her waist, no panties, the scent of her wet pussy hitting me like a drug. We kissed until we were dizzy, tongues sloppy, her moans vibrating into my mouth, tasting faintly of the peach tea she loved. She rocked on my thigh, soaking my jeans with slick that smelled like warm honey and sex, whimpering my name like it hurt.
I pushed her back, shoved the dress higher, and buried my face between her legs. She tasted like melted sugar and salt, thick and heady. I licked slow, long stripes from her tiny pink asshole to her clit, then faster, sucking that hard little button until she bucked and screamed into her pillow. Her first orgasm hit like a seizure; hips jerking, thighs clamping my head, a hot gush flooding my tongue, coating my lips, dripping off my chin. I kept going, two fingers curled inside her spasming cunt, tongue flicking without mercy until she came again, harder, squirting in rhythmic pulses that soaked my wrist, my chin, the sheets, the taste flooding my mouth until I was drunk on her.
She tore my jeans open, took me in her mouth; hot, eager, messy; drool everywhere, little choking noises, the salty taste of my precum mixing with her spit. Then she climbed on, lined me up, and sank down in one trembling glide. So tight it almost hurt, velvet heat swallowing me whole. She rode me slow at first, eyes locked, whispering, “You feel perfect inside me.” Then faster, harder, tiny tits bouncing, head thrown back, moaning louder with every wet slap of her ass on my thighs, the room thick with the smell of her juices and my sweat.
She spun reverse, hands on my shins, back arched, pussy swallowing me with greedy sucking sounds that filled the air like filth. I grabbed her hips and fucked up into her until the bed squeaked like it would snap. She came again, walls clamping so hard I saw stars, milking the cum out of me in thick pulses that I could feel jetting out of me, hot and endless.
We weren’t finished. She pushed me behind her, cheek to the mattress, ass high. I slid back into that creamy mess and fucked her deep and steady. Every thrust made obscene squishing noises, our mixed fluids dripping down her thighs in sticky ropes that cooled instantly on my skin. She begged for harder, faster. I gave it to her until my hips burned, until she came one last time; shaking, crying, pussy fluttering so hard it dragged another load out of me, the scent of our sex so thick I could taste it in the back of my throat. We collapsed, soaked, panting, her whispering over and over that no one had ever made her feel this good, her breath hot against my neck, vanilla and salt and cum.
I was stupidly, painfully in love.
October blurred into November in the softest way possible. We never rushed. We just folded ourselves into each other’s days like we’d always belonged there.
Mornings started with her knocking on my dorm door at 7:12 every Tuesday and Thursday, two iced coffees in hand (hers extra sweet, mine black because she insisted it made me look “serious”). She’d be wrapped in one of my hoodies that swallowed her whole, sleeves pushed up, freckles bright against the gray cotton. We’d walk across campus together, steam curling from our cups, her shoulder bumping mine every few steps because the sidewalks were too narrow and neither of us moved over.
She had this habit of stealing my notes in psych lecture, doodling tiny peaches in the margins while the professor droned on about classical conditioning. When I’d nudge her foot under the table she’d slide the page back with a sticky note that just said “pay attention, nerd” in her loopy handwriting. I still have every single one taped inside my planner.
We studied in the library’s third-floor carrels until the overhead lights flickered on at closing time. She’d sit cross-legged on the table, earbuds in one ear, sharing the other with me while we listened to the same lo-fi playlist on repeat. Sometimes she’d fall asleep with her head on my open textbook, blonde hair spilling across diagrams of the limbic system, and I’d sit perfectly still for an hour just to keep from waking her.
On Fridays we claimed the same cracked vinyl booth at the campus diner, splitting one order of cheese fries because she said sharing tasted better. She always stole the crispiest ones first and laughed when I pretended to be mad about it. We’d talk about nothing important (her little brother’s terrible Fortnite skills, my mom’s new obsession with succulents, the way the fountain outside the student union looked prettier when it was raining). She’d trace lazy circles on the back of my hand with her thumb while we talked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Some nights we walked the long way back from the dining hall just to pass under the big oak that dropped helicopter seeds all over the path. She’d spin them between her fingers and make wishes out loud, voice soft against the cold: “I wish it snows before finals. I wish my bio professor forgets the last quiz. I wish you keep letting me wear your hoodie even when it stops smelling like you.” I never told her I sprayed extra cologne on the cuffs when I knew she was coming over.
We carved out a tiny routine inside the chaos of college. She kept a spare toothbrush in my bathroom drawer. I kept peach tea in my mini-fridge because she hated everything else. My roommate learned to knock before coming back on weekends because sometimes she’d be curled on my bed in fuzzy socks watching old episodes of The Office on my laptop while I pretended to read beside her. She’d fall asleep halfway through every time, mouth open a little, one hand tucked under her cheek, and I’d watch the credits roll in silence just to listen to her breathe.
She started calling me “Jere” without thinking, the nickname slipping out soft and easy like she’d been saying it forever. I started answering to it like it was the only name I’d ever had.
We took one blurry Polaroid together outside the library the day the first snow finally fell (her nose red, cheeks flushed, both of us laughing because the shutter clicked right when a gust of wind blew snow down the back of my neck). She wrote the date on the white border in Sharpie and stuck it to my desk lamp where I’d see it every single night.
Everything felt quiet and certain and endless.
Like we had all the time in the world to keep building these small, perfect days on top of each other until they became something neither of us would ever want to leave.
Then basketball season started, and Marcus happened.
Eighteen. 6'6". Dark skin gleaming under the gym lights, carved muscle, easy grin that lit up rooms. He sat behind Becky in kinesiology, always leaning forward to “borrow notes,” huge hand brushing hers, the faint scent of his cologne (cedar and something darker) lingering on her skin when she came back to me.
Then the late texts started. That cedar smell in her hair, stronger every day. One Tuesday she gave me a slow, clinical handjob, eyes fixed on my cock like she was measuring, stroking longer than necessary, the slick sound of lube too loud in the quiet room, before finishing me with a smile too bright, her fingers still smelling faintly of someone else’s skin.
I told myself I was paranoid.
Then came the night Marcus dropped thirty-one points and the basketball house exploded.
Becky begged me to come. She wore his road jersey (number 23) cut so short it barely covered her ass, his name stretched across her back like a brand, the fabric carrying his scent so strongly it made my stomach twist. She got drunk fast, laughing louder, letting his huge hand slide from her waist to cup her ass, the heat of his palm searing through the thin cloth while I stood there with watered-down drinks that tasted like nothing.
She vanished upstairs. He followed.
I followed them both, heart hammering, up the stairs and down the hall until I found the cracked door. Light spilled out, golden and obscene.
She was on her knees.
Marcus towered over her, jeans shoved down. When his cock sprang free my knees almost buckled.
Ten inches of perfectly straight, wrist-thick dark dick (veins like cables under velvet-smooth skin), ending in that flared, glossy peach-head already glistening with precum that smelled sharp and masculine even from the hallway. Like I had seen in porn, Mandingo? No Anton Harden, as long but this was attached to a 18-year-old freshman. And beneath it, two plum-sized balls hanging low and heavy, skin dark and wrinkled, each one bigger than both of mine combined, swaying like pendulums, the musky heat rolling off them so strong I could taste it in the air. A long, monstrous weapon moments away from desecrating my tiny girlfriend.
Becky’s tiny hands couldn’t close around the shaft, so she went lower, cupping those massive nuts with both palms, lifting them like sacred treasure, thumbs tracing the seams, feeling the weight, the heat, the faint pulse of cum inside.
“Oh my…,” she breathed, voice trembling with pure worship, nose buried in the crease where thigh met groin, inhaling until her eyes fluttered. “No wonder black guys knock girls up so easily… look at these fucking balls, Marcus. They’re enormous.”
She nuzzled her face into them, cheeks smearing with the musk, inhaled deep until her whole body shuddered, then sucked one into her mouth with a wet *SCHLURP*, moaning like it tasted better than life itself, tongue swirling over every ridge, savoring the salty skin. Switched to the other, then tried both, cheeks bulging comically, drool running down her chin in thick ropes while she stroked the shaft above in frantic worship, fingers slick with his precum. “So heavy… so hot… I can feel all that thick cum sloshing inside… you’re gonna feed me with these, baby. I’m addicted to the smell.” She giggled and patted his balls, "They feel so heavy."
Marcus just grinned, hand in her hair.
She finally attacked the cock (one long, filthy lick from those swollen nuts to the dripping tip), tongue tracing every vein like she was mapping it, savoring the salty-bitter flavor, the texture of each ridge. Opened wide and sucked the head in with a desperate *SCHLORP*. Spit poured down in ropes as she bobbed, gagging, mascara streaking, eyes locked on that massive shaft like it was hers, tears streaming as she forced more in, throat bulging obscenely, worshipping every inch with her tongue.
She jerked him with both fists (twisting, slurping, spitting) until the room sounded like a porn set: wet *shluck-shluck-shluck-shluck*, choking coughs, her constant, reverent moaning about how perfect his huge dick tasted, how the scent was burned into her brain now, how she’d never want anything smaller again.
Then she rose slowly to her feet, trembling, mascara-streaked, lips swollen and shining. Marcus towered over her even more now, 6'6" to her 5'2", and when he pulled her close his obscenely long cock didn’t bend or curve; it simply lay straight up against her tiny torso like a steel rod. The thick root pressed hot against her lower belly, the veined shaft sliding between her freckled tits, and that glossy, flared peach-head (still dripping thick strands of precum) rested right at the hollow of her throat, just beneath her chin. One slow pulse and another fat bead welled up, rolling down the underside of the crown to coat her collarbone in warm, sticky gloss.
Becky stared down at it in open-mouthed awe, the length of him spanning almost the entire front of her body, marking her from pussy to neck. She wrapped both small hands around the middle of the shaft (still couldn’t touch her fingers) and gave a slow, reverent stroke upward, making the head nudge her chin and smear more precum across her lips. She licked it off instantly, moaning like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.
She whispered, voice shaking with worship, eyes never leaving the monster pressed against her. “It’s longer than my whole torso… reaches all the way to my throat.”
Finally she croaked, voice wrecked and thick with saliva: “I need this monster inside me right now, Marcus. I need to feel these big, perfect balls slapping me.”
She scrambled onto all fours, facing the door (facing me). Our eyes locked. She was shocked for a moment, gave an awkward smile, dazed, lips swollen and glistening, then closed her eyes utterly obsessed.
Marcus stepped behind her. He dragged the slick, flared head down the crack of her ass and pressed it deliberately against her tiny pink asshole, she yelped. He left a thick, shining trail of precum that clung there like a promise. Becky shivered and let out a broken whimper. Then he slid lower, nestling that peach-head against her swollen pussy lips. He pushed once, twice. Nothing. She was impossibly tight, her entrance fluttering but refusing the impossible stretch.
She was barefoot on the fountain edge, pale-yellow sundress fluttering, blonde hair wild, freckles like cinnamon sugar across her nose. I mumbled something stupid about her book. She looked up, smiled slow and sweet, Georgia honey, and said, “Hey. I’m Becky.”
Eighteen. Tiny. Barely 5'2". Vanilla lotion thick in the air around her, soft laughter, a drawl that slid over my skin like warm syrup. By the end of the week we were inseparable.
The wanting built like a fever.
Fingers brushing and lingering, static crackling. Thighs pressed together in library booths, heat bleeding through denim. Late-night walks where she’d lean into me, breath hot and sweet on my neck, whispering, “You make me feel all fluttery inside.” Every almost-kiss tasted like her strawberry lip gloss; every accidental grind when she hugged me goodbye left the scent of her arousal soaked into my shirt for hours.
Mid-October she dragged me to her dorm. Roommate gone. Fairy lights glowing amber.
She straddled me on the twin XL, sundress rucked to her waist, no panties, the scent of her wet pussy hitting me like a drug. We kissed until we were dizzy, tongues sloppy, her moans vibrating into my mouth, tasting faintly of the peach tea she loved. She rocked on my thigh, soaking my jeans with slick that smelled like warm honey and sex, whimpering my name like it hurt.
I pushed her back, shoved the dress higher, and buried my face between her legs. She tasted like melted sugar and salt, thick and heady. I licked slow, long stripes from her tiny pink asshole to her clit, then faster, sucking that hard little button until she bucked and screamed into her pillow. Her first orgasm hit like a seizure; hips jerking, thighs clamping my head, a hot gush flooding my tongue, coating my lips, dripping off my chin. I kept going, two fingers curled inside her spasming cunt, tongue flicking without mercy until she came again, harder, squirting in rhythmic pulses that soaked my wrist, my chin, the sheets, the taste flooding my mouth until I was drunk on her.
She tore my jeans open, took me in her mouth; hot, eager, messy; drool everywhere, little choking noises, the salty taste of my precum mixing with her spit. Then she climbed on, lined me up, and sank down in one trembling glide. So tight it almost hurt, velvet heat swallowing me whole. She rode me slow at first, eyes locked, whispering, “You feel perfect inside me.” Then faster, harder, tiny tits bouncing, head thrown back, moaning louder with every wet slap of her ass on my thighs, the room thick with the smell of her juices and my sweat.
She spun reverse, hands on my shins, back arched, pussy swallowing me with greedy sucking sounds that filled the air like filth. I grabbed her hips and fucked up into her until the bed squeaked like it would snap. She came again, walls clamping so hard I saw stars, milking the cum out of me in thick pulses that I could feel jetting out of me, hot and endless.
We weren’t finished. She pushed me behind her, cheek to the mattress, ass high. I slid back into that creamy mess and fucked her deep and steady. Every thrust made obscene squishing noises, our mixed fluids dripping down her thighs in sticky ropes that cooled instantly on my skin. She begged for harder, faster. I gave it to her until my hips burned, until she came one last time; shaking, crying, pussy fluttering so hard it dragged another load out of me, the scent of our sex so thick I could taste it in the back of my throat. We collapsed, soaked, panting, her whispering over and over that no one had ever made her feel this good, her breath hot against my neck, vanilla and salt and cum.
I was stupidly, painfully in love.
October blurred into November in the softest way possible. We never rushed. We just folded ourselves into each other’s days like we’d always belonged there.
Mornings started with her knocking on my dorm door at 7:12 every Tuesday and Thursday, two iced coffees in hand (hers extra sweet, mine black because she insisted it made me look “serious”). She’d be wrapped in one of my hoodies that swallowed her whole, sleeves pushed up, freckles bright against the gray cotton. We’d walk across campus together, steam curling from our cups, her shoulder bumping mine every few steps because the sidewalks were too narrow and neither of us moved over.
She had this habit of stealing my notes in psych lecture, doodling tiny peaches in the margins while the professor droned on about classical conditioning. When I’d nudge her foot under the table she’d slide the page back with a sticky note that just said “pay attention, nerd” in her loopy handwriting. I still have every single one taped inside my planner.
We studied in the library’s third-floor carrels until the overhead lights flickered on at closing time. She’d sit cross-legged on the table, earbuds in one ear, sharing the other with me while we listened to the same lo-fi playlist on repeat. Sometimes she’d fall asleep with her head on my open textbook, blonde hair spilling across diagrams of the limbic system, and I’d sit perfectly still for an hour just to keep from waking her.
On Fridays we claimed the same cracked vinyl booth at the campus diner, splitting one order of cheese fries because she said sharing tasted better. She always stole the crispiest ones first and laughed when I pretended to be mad about it. We’d talk about nothing important (her little brother’s terrible Fortnite skills, my mom’s new obsession with succulents, the way the fountain outside the student union looked prettier when it was raining). She’d trace lazy circles on the back of my hand with her thumb while we talked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Some nights we walked the long way back from the dining hall just to pass under the big oak that dropped helicopter seeds all over the path. She’d spin them between her fingers and make wishes out loud, voice soft against the cold: “I wish it snows before finals. I wish my bio professor forgets the last quiz. I wish you keep letting me wear your hoodie even when it stops smelling like you.” I never told her I sprayed extra cologne on the cuffs when I knew she was coming over.
We carved out a tiny routine inside the chaos of college. She kept a spare toothbrush in my bathroom drawer. I kept peach tea in my mini-fridge because she hated everything else. My roommate learned to knock before coming back on weekends because sometimes she’d be curled on my bed in fuzzy socks watching old episodes of The Office on my laptop while I pretended to read beside her. She’d fall asleep halfway through every time, mouth open a little, one hand tucked under her cheek, and I’d watch the credits roll in silence just to listen to her breathe.
She started calling me “Jere” without thinking, the nickname slipping out soft and easy like she’d been saying it forever. I started answering to it like it was the only name I’d ever had.
We took one blurry Polaroid together outside the library the day the first snow finally fell (her nose red, cheeks flushed, both of us laughing because the shutter clicked right when a gust of wind blew snow down the back of my neck). She wrote the date on the white border in Sharpie and stuck it to my desk lamp where I’d see it every single night.
Everything felt quiet and certain and endless.
Like we had all the time in the world to keep building these small, perfect days on top of each other until they became something neither of us would ever want to leave.
Then basketball season started, and Marcus happened.
Eighteen. 6'6". Dark skin gleaming under the gym lights, carved muscle, easy grin that lit up rooms. He sat behind Becky in kinesiology, always leaning forward to “borrow notes,” huge hand brushing hers, the faint scent of his cologne (cedar and something darker) lingering on her skin when she came back to me.
Then the late texts started. That cedar smell in her hair, stronger every day. One Tuesday she gave me a slow, clinical handjob, eyes fixed on my cock like she was measuring, stroking longer than necessary, the slick sound of lube too loud in the quiet room, before finishing me with a smile too bright, her fingers still smelling faintly of someone else’s skin.
I told myself I was paranoid.
Then came the night Marcus dropped thirty-one points and the basketball house exploded.
Becky begged me to come. She wore his road jersey (number 23) cut so short it barely covered her ass, his name stretched across her back like a brand, the fabric carrying his scent so strongly it made my stomach twist. She got drunk fast, laughing louder, letting his huge hand slide from her waist to cup her ass, the heat of his palm searing through the thin cloth while I stood there with watered-down drinks that tasted like nothing.
She vanished upstairs. He followed.
I followed them both, heart hammering, up the stairs and down the hall until I found the cracked door. Light spilled out, golden and obscene.
She was on her knees.
Marcus towered over her, jeans shoved down. When his cock sprang free my knees almost buckled.
Ten inches of perfectly straight, wrist-thick dark dick (veins like cables under velvet-smooth skin), ending in that flared, glossy peach-head already glistening with precum that smelled sharp and masculine even from the hallway. Like I had seen in porn, Mandingo? No Anton Harden, as long but this was attached to a 18-year-old freshman. And beneath it, two plum-sized balls hanging low and heavy, skin dark and wrinkled, each one bigger than both of mine combined, swaying like pendulums, the musky heat rolling off them so strong I could taste it in the air. A long, monstrous weapon moments away from desecrating my tiny girlfriend.
Becky’s tiny hands couldn’t close around the shaft, so she went lower, cupping those massive nuts with both palms, lifting them like sacred treasure, thumbs tracing the seams, feeling the weight, the heat, the faint pulse of cum inside.
“Oh my…,” she breathed, voice trembling with pure worship, nose buried in the crease where thigh met groin, inhaling until her eyes fluttered. “No wonder black guys knock girls up so easily… look at these fucking balls, Marcus. They’re enormous.”
She nuzzled her face into them, cheeks smearing with the musk, inhaled deep until her whole body shuddered, then sucked one into her mouth with a wet *SCHLURP*, moaning like it tasted better than life itself, tongue swirling over every ridge, savoring the salty skin. Switched to the other, then tried both, cheeks bulging comically, drool running down her chin in thick ropes while she stroked the shaft above in frantic worship, fingers slick with his precum. “So heavy… so hot… I can feel all that thick cum sloshing inside… you’re gonna feed me with these, baby. I’m addicted to the smell.” She giggled and patted his balls, "They feel so heavy."
Marcus just grinned, hand in her hair.
She finally attacked the cock (one long, filthy lick from those swollen nuts to the dripping tip), tongue tracing every vein like she was mapping it, savoring the salty-bitter flavor, the texture of each ridge. Opened wide and sucked the head in with a desperate *SCHLORP*. Spit poured down in ropes as she bobbed, gagging, mascara streaking, eyes locked on that massive shaft like it was hers, tears streaming as she forced more in, throat bulging obscenely, worshipping every inch with her tongue.
She jerked him with both fists (twisting, slurping, spitting) until the room sounded like a porn set: wet *shluck-shluck-shluck-shluck*, choking coughs, her constant, reverent moaning about how perfect his huge dick tasted, how the scent was burned into her brain now, how she’d never want anything smaller again.
Then she rose slowly to her feet, trembling, mascara-streaked, lips swollen and shining. Marcus towered over her even more now, 6'6" to her 5'2", and when he pulled her close his obscenely long cock didn’t bend or curve; it simply lay straight up against her tiny torso like a steel rod. The thick root pressed hot against her lower belly, the veined shaft sliding between her freckled tits, and that glossy, flared peach-head (still dripping thick strands of precum) rested right at the hollow of her throat, just beneath her chin. One slow pulse and another fat bead welled up, rolling down the underside of the crown to coat her collarbone in warm, sticky gloss.
Becky stared down at it in open-mouthed awe, the length of him spanning almost the entire front of her body, marking her from pussy to neck. She wrapped both small hands around the middle of the shaft (still couldn’t touch her fingers) and gave a slow, reverent stroke upward, making the head nudge her chin and smear more precum across her lips. She licked it off instantly, moaning like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.
She whispered, voice shaking with worship, eyes never leaving the monster pressed against her. “It’s longer than my whole torso… reaches all the way to my throat.”
Finally she croaked, voice wrecked and thick with saliva: “I need this monster inside me right now, Marcus. I need to feel these big, perfect balls slapping me.”
She scrambled onto all fours, facing the door (facing me). Our eyes locked. She was shocked for a moment, gave an awkward smile, dazed, lips swollen and glistening, then closed her eyes utterly obsessed.
Marcus stepped behind her. He dragged the slick, flared head down the crack of her ass and pressed it deliberately against her tiny pink asshole, she yelped. He left a thick, shining trail of precum that clung there like a promise. Becky shivered and let out a broken whimper. Then he slid lower, nestling that peach-head against her swollen pussy lips. He pushed once, twice. Nothing. She was impossibly tight, her entrance fluttering but refusing the impossible stretch.
