Paul woke with morning wood, which was nothing unusual, especially if he'd been talking to—or even just been in the same room as—the lovely Angela Sinclair before going to bed. Angela was, literally, his dream girl. And his dreams about her were always extremely detailed.
He didn't know what he found so appealing about Angela. It might have been her eyes, which were the very definition of come-to-bed eyes, or it might have been her sweetly innocent—and, at the same time, devilishly nasty—smile. Or was it her deliciously wicked sense of humour and downright dirty laugh? Of course, her being hot as hell might have had something to do with it, too.
Paul tried hard to hold on to his rapidly fading dream. All he managed to retain was a vision of Angela's naked breasts. He'd never actually seen them completely naked, but he'd been in the front row when she won a wet tee-shirt contest at the campus nightclub. He tried to imagine how it would feel to suck on her nipples or slide his cock between her boobs. His hand went instinctively to his erection. He'd managed only a few long, languid strokes before someone banged on his door.
"Paul! Get your lazy arse out of bed, mate."
"Fuck off, Jack! I'm busy."
"Yeah, right. Doing what? Watching porn and wanking? Get the fuck up, will you? It's nearly midday, and we've got to go down Tesco and stock up for the party."
Jack lived in the room next to Paul. They had been best friends from the day they moved in to the hall of residence on the university campus. The party he was referring to was to celebrate Paul's birthday. Paul reluctantly let go of his stiffy and forced himself out of bed. He grabbed a towel and unlocked the door. "Is it okay with you if I have a shower before we go?"
Jack wafted his hand in front of his nose. "That's a good idea, mate. You smell like that pub we ended up in last night. Not nice."
The shower was agony. Paul saw Angela head into the communal bathroom before him. She was wearing a short, red satin robe that only just covered her curvy arse. He took the cubicle next to hers, and the thought of her naked, soap-covered body under the shower with only a thin plasterboard wall between them kept him painfully hard. He'd have finished himself off there and then if he hadn't been so scared that she'd hear him.
Just under an hour later, Paul and Jack were in the vast drinks section of the local superstore. They already had two large trolleys chock-full of crates of the supermarket's cheap, own-brand bitter, lager and cider, and they were trying to decide which spirits, if any, to buy.
"If we're going to get whisky and vodka and stuff, we really should get a brand name. At least we know it'll be half-decent."
"Jack, do I look like a fucking connoisseur? Or like I'm made of money? This party's costing me enough as it is. Just get the cheapest shit they've got."
Jack picked up a few bottles and put them in the trolley.
"You can put that back." Paul pointed at the collection of bottles.
"Put what back?"
"The tequila. I hate that stuff."
"So don't drink it. The girls asked me to get it especially."
"Angela, for one."
Paul grunted and nodded. "Oh. All right, then."
They wheeled the trolleys to the checkout. While they were waiting in the queue, Jack asked, "So, are you finally going to get off with her tonight, or what?"
"Get off with who?"
Jack rolled his eyes. "Who? For fuck's sake, I was talking about Angela. You know—the girl you've fancied like, forever. The fittest bird in the hall. Legs like one of Girls Aloud, arse like Kylie in the 'Spinning Around' video, and tits the size of watermelons—"
"They aren't that big."
"All right, maybe not watermelons, but they aren't exactly vanilla muffins either, are they? You can't deny you wouldn't love to get your hands on them. I know I would."
"I don't know. Don't you think she's a bit out of my league?"
"Yeah, right. We're not in fucking secondary school now, you know. These girls are smart, and they're in to big-brained bastards, not meatheads with muscles. And you're the biggest-brained bastard I know."
Paul smiled. "You reckon?"
"Fuck, yeah. I tell you what—you play your cards right, and I'd be willing to bet you wake up next to Angela tomorrow morning. Or, if not Angela, some other fucking hottie."
During the next few moments, Paul considered this. His funny little smile gave away his train of thought.
"Mind you," said Jack. "She's been around the block a bit, hasn't she?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, she's not exactly virginal, is she? I mean, they don't call her Kit-Kat for nothing, do they?"
Jack held up his hand, tucked his thumb behind his palm and waved at Jack. "You can get four fingers in her twat, mate," he said with a grin. "Four fucking fingers."
It turned out to be a pretty normal party by their own outrageous standards. It was loud—there were two competing stereo systems at either end of the corridor, both playing at full blast—and alcohol-fuelled. They started slowly on cans of cheap supermarket beer and cider, but someone had opened the equally cheap and nasty vodka and tequila within a couple of hours.
Paul and Jack spent the evening trying out cheesy chat-up lines and collecting kisses from the female students. Jack pushed it too far with one of them and got a vodka-and-Coke thrown over his crotch. While Jack nipped back to his room to change his jeans, Paul started on the tequila. Paul and tequila had a history—to say they didn't get along particularly well was an understatement of titanic proportions. Mortal enemies would be a better description. Normally, he didn't touch the stuff, but Angela and two of her friends were slamming, and they invited him to join in.
"Beat all three of us and I'll snog you," she offered.
Paul was never one to turn down a challenge anyway, but this time the prize on offer was definitely worth having. He tried to act cool, gulped down his nerves and said, "And if one of you beat me?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. We'll think of something, won't we girls? Best two out of three?"
"Okay, you're on."
Three glasses of the evil firewater later, Paul and Angela were sitting on her bed, four rooms down from his, and he was cleaning her tonsils with his tongue. She tasted as good as he had imagined—like strawberries and vanilla ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon. He had one hand on the back of her head and fondled her boobs with the other. When they eventually came up for air, all Paul could do was sit and stare.
Say something clever, said the voice in his head that had been drinking orange juice all night. This might be your only chance. Say something witty. Make it memorable.
"Angela, you're fucking gorgeous, you know?"
Is that the best you could come up with? Fucking hell, I'm putting in for a transfer.
Angela stared back at him, her eyes twinkling like sapphires. She shook her head and her black hair fell around her shoulders. "You really think so?"
I can't believe this. Worst line you've ever used, and it might actually work. Don't fuck this up!
"God, yeah. You're fucking top-drawer."
Angela's smile widened. "I thought gentlemen preferred blondes?"
Careful. Careful. "Oh, they do." Fuck! You've fucked it up, moron! "But I'm no gentleman." Ohhhh, good save!
"That's good. 'Cause I'm no lady, either." She threw herself at him, locking her lips to his. This time it was Paul's tonsils that got cleaned. The little fella in his boxers sprang to life—at least brewer's droop wasn't going to be a problem.
Their passionate embrace was so intense that they could only manage a short session. When she sat back to catch her breath, Paul said, "My God, Angela. I've fancied you since the first time I saw you. I said to myself, 'Paul, that's one fit bird.' And you are. You're the fittest bird on campus."
Angela grinned. Paul's inner voice sighed with relief. I can't believe you got away without a slap for that one. She must be really drunk.
"Awwww, that's sweet. Why did you wait so long to say anything?"
Like a true stud, Paul shrugged. "Dunno. Just didn't."
An awkward silence followed. You've blown it, screamed Paul's increasingly annoying inner teetotaller. Angela suddenly leaped off the bed and ran towards the door. Paul's little fella was little again as he prepared to beat a humble retreat.
"Back in a sec," she said. "Don't go nowhere."
Like we've got anywhere to go.
Paul counted each of the agonising forty-eight seconds that she was gone. He half expected her to return with her friends and start laughing at him. He cursed Jack for persuading him to give up smoking—he could do with a fag.
Angela bounced back into the room with a bottle of tequila in her hand. She slammed the door shut with her foot, jumped on the bed beside Paul, and grinned. It was devilish, seductive, cheeky, drunken and downright horny.
I've seen that type of grin before. She's about to get nasty. Wey-hey!
She dropped the bottle on the bed between them. It was empty.
"What's going on?" Paul asked.
I can guess! I can guess!
"Duh! Strip Spin-the-Bottle."
"Don't tell me you haven't played before, because everyone has. We take it in turns to spin the bottle, and whoever it points at takes off an item of clothing."
.... There is more of this story ...