She was Saving Herself for Marriage

A few more tales from my life. All participants are at least 18. I use WisprFlow dictation software since a stroke took away a lot of my mobility. It gets credit for spelling and figuring out punctuation, but the words are mine.

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I arrived at school for my freshman year, and my parents dropped off with all my worldly goods for the next four years. We got there early afternoon, and my parents dropped me and took off like bank robbers. They had a day and a half of driving ahead of them, and Dad wanted it done.

My hall, which we fondly called "The Lost Corridor," had an extra door separating us from the noise of the first-floor lobby. The walls were decorated with huge paintings of album covers. My room was next to Pink Floyd's "The Wall."

In the late afternoon, we had a brief meeting with the resident advisers. The RAs were responsible for the dorm and for us. They had words about drinking responsibly and the rules we'd have to follow if we wanted to keep living there. It was a meeting loaded with subtext, since the RAs were trying to control the uncontrollable from the start. They also mentioned the late-night truck that came out every night offering much-needed pizza subs.

Then they talked about consent and making sure we had it before doing anything. Jim pretended to be "Jenny" while Carl carefully asked for consent at each escalation.

"May I touch you?" That was before any hands came into play.

As the hands got more assertive: "May I touch your breast?"

And before leaning in: "Is it OK if I kiss you?"

It was comical, but they emphasized there would be zero tolerance for consent violations, which meant immediate expulsion. Maybe they were serious?

The first night, there was a party on the third floor of our dorm. Low-hanging fruit. Lots of attendees, male and female, all worked up in a new place, experiencing new freedom.

I got to talking with Nancy, a beautiful blonde in a print summer dress that left little to the imagination. It hugged her shapely hips and displayed her sizable cleavage pleasantly. Recalling the afternoon presentation, I launched into consent mode, perhaps laying it on a bit thick.

"May I touch your shoulder?" It was beautifully exposed by the spaghetti strap running over it.

"I'm saving myself for marriage," she said.

"It's just your shoulder," I countered, hoping for relief.

She tilted her head to the side. "OK. Just the shoulder. No more."

I reached out with my right hand and touched her shoulder with my fingertips, slowly increasing the pressure. She stared at my hand. I squeezed and eased my palm into her skin.

"Is that OK?"

"Yes," she whispered. She reached up with her right hand and pressed mine into her shoulder and under the spaghetti strap.

I thought maybe there was a chance here, and I committed to spending some time getting to know her. It was still early Monday night, and finding a more accommodating young lady was always the backup plan.

I slipped my fingers off her shoulder and moved my palm down the outside of her dress, cupping her breast gently, giving it a light squeeze.

"Oh, that's nice," she moaned, "but no more. I'm saving myself for marriage."

I let my hand linger a few moments more, then reluctantly removed it.

"You might like just a little more touching," I said. "Only outside the dress."

She nodded slowly, and I returned my hand to her breast.

She squeaked as I touched her nipple through the wonderfully thin dress. I moved my palm back and forth, feeling her nipple harden under my hand.

"You are so soft. It's a delight to touch you. To hear you gasp."

I squeezed her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, eliciting another gasp.

She closed her eyes and said, with some effort, "I'm still not going to sleep with you. There are... other things we can do."

She reached down and fondled my cock with her right hand while reaching up with her left and pushing my hand harder against her breast.

"We can do a lot that's not cock in pussy. A lot."

She took me by the hand and led me out of the party and into that floor's bathroom. Floors had a bathroom for the gender assigned to that floor, so this was a women's room.

Unlike in real life, where many women's rooms are destinations and men's rooms are pit stops best experienced as briefly as possible, college tried to be equitable. This bathroom was basically the same as the one on my floor.

She led me into a shower, closed the curtain, and dropped to her knees. She released the zipper and fly of my jeans, pulled them and my boxers just below my ass, and blew gentle breaths over the head of my dick.

Wrapping her lips around my glans, she began a slow descent down the length of my six inches. As I hit her throat, she opened a bit, swallowed deeply, and pushed my cock into her throat. It was incredible; I saw stars.

She began to suck and swallow in earnest, alternating a few deep sucks with a swallow, squeezing my sensitive tip in her throat. I looked into her eyes, and she smiled as much as she could around my cock filling her mouth and throat.

A tingling began in my testicles until it became impossible to resist and surged up my penis until spurt after spurt erupted in her throat. She swallowed deeply and licked a bit of spilled cum from her lips.

"Is that an acceptable substitute?"

She stood, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me deeply. I could taste myself on her lips. Not gonna lie, it was hot.

Then she turned and looked over her shoulder. "Maybe I'll see you later this week," she said in a singsong voice.

She marched out of the bathroom and headed for the lobby. As soon as I could move again, I chased her, only to find the lobby empty, with no evidence of my Virgin Girl.

Maybe I would see her again.