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THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
“Oh yeah, give it to me with that big cock!”
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP
“Take it! You’re a good little bitch, aren’t you?”
THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD
“Mmmmhmm! Slap my ass harder!!”
It was now late April, at the tail end of our first year’s exams, and I was in the middle of the ritual I’d developed over the past few weeks – ever since I’d realized I was attracted to my stunning best friend, Claire.
It was 1 a.m. on a Saturday night, and I’d quietly slipped out of my dorm room and crept two doors down the hall to Claire’s. I knew she’d be in the middle of her latest fuck session, and I was there to catch whatever sounds leaked through the door.
Ever since that night in March when I first overheard Claire’s dirty talk with some mystery guy she’d brought back, I’d become obsessed – with her, and with her sex life.
But Claire and I were too close. Telling her that I’d suddenly developed feelings for her felt completely out of the question. So instead of doing what a normal guy might do (talking to her about it), I’d started spending my weekends sneaking around the hallway, listening to her with other guys.
The routine had become almost mechanical.
Claire and I used to go out partying most weekends, usually ending the night by helping each other find someone to go home with. Lately, though, I’d been telling her I had to stay in and study – that I was getting serious about my exam grades and needed to focus.
Claire had laughed the first time I said it. “Ethan, you only experience college once,” she’d told me.
Easy for her to say. Claire was an arts major with a guaranteed job waiting at her dad’s investment firm. For me, getting into med school was do-or-die.
But I digress.
Claire would head out for the night, and I actually would try to study – though my attention was always split, one ear tuned to the hallway as I waited for her to come back.
Usually a few hours later I’d hear it: Claire’s voice in the corridor, laughing with some random guy as they fumbled with her keys and tried to unlock her door.
That was always my first cue.
I’d wait about ten minutes, then slowly crack my own door open. Almost every time, the sounds had already started – moans, the creak of the bed, the dull rhythm of bodies hitting the mattress – drifting down the hallway.
And that was my “shower” cue.
I’d throw on a bathrobe and grab my toiletries basket. My phone would already be tucked inside it, the voice recording app open – the same one I normally used for recording lectures.
As I stepped into the hallway, I’d quietly hit record.
Then I’d walk past Claire’s room on the way to the showers and pause briefly outside her door, pretending to check my basket to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
In reality, I was listening. As was my phone.
Trying to absorb as much as I could without looking suspicious in case someone else walked by.
Usually after 15-20 seconds, my dick hard as stone and my heart pounding faster than after going on a long run, I’d keep walking to the shower, ending the audio recording when I entered.
Over the past few weeks, I’d managed to collect about half a dozen clips.
They weren’t long. None of them were particularly clear. And I’d sworn to myself that they would never leave my phone, never be shared with anyone.
But still… they were something.
A small window into Claire’s private world – one I could replay whenever I wanted.
So there I was again, capturing the latest clip of Claire and whatever random guy she’d brought back that night, adding it to my slowly growing collection.
I continued down the hall to the showers and paused the recording on my phone. Once I was inside, I quickly slipped on my headphones and listened back to the clip. The sound had come through clearly enough.
Good enough to add to the rotation.
While most guys had a hidden porn folder on their computers, mine had become dedicated almost entirely to Claire, buried several folders deep inside a stack of chemistry notes from first-term.
And the folder kept growing.
It wasn’t just the recordings. As I mentioned before, jerking off to Claire’s Instagram had become a regular habit. Eventually, to save time (and to avoid the risk of accidentally liking or unliking something on her page) I started screenshotting the photos I liked most. Bikini shots. Pictures of her in tight jeans that showed off her ass. Photos of her in those skin-tight workout sets she loved wearing to the gym.
Whenever I was horny, I’d just pull up a photo of her, pick one of the recordings, and go to work.
But that was only the beginning.
I’d always considered myself completely straight, but my obsession with Claire eventually started drifting into another direction too: thinking about the guys she was with.
Some of them I could guess. Claire had a few regular hookups she liked enough to keep around. Dylan, a winger on our school’s hockey team. Tyler from one of her marketing classes. Matt from the frat house where we went to parties most weekends.
Before long, I had photos of them saved too. Depending on my mood, I’d sometimes pull up one of their Instagram photos alongside Claire’s while I listened to the recordings, imagining that they were the ones clapping her cheeks in whatever clip I’d captured. Sometimes, though, I’d fill in the blank with someone I’d never actually seen her with.
Claire’s type had always seemed pretty predictable – fit, broad-shouldered, preppy white guys who looked like they’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Which is why it shocked me the first time I paired one of her photos with a picture of Tristan, the tall Black forward from our basketball team.
While I knew Claire would never go for a guy like that, imagining the idea of him bending her over, watching the size difference as he plowed her tight ass doggy with his big nuts hanging low, sent me over the edge more than anything else did.
Unsurprisingly, this quickly became a favorite. I even became a bit of an audio tech wizard altering some of the clips to give a guy a deeper voice to match closer to Tristan’s, to help aid the fantasy.
Looking back, the common denominator in all of this was pretty obvious.
My entire collection – my so-called “Claire folder” – was built around her.
But in none of those fantasies was I actually there.
It was always Claire… and some other guy.
At the time, I didn’t really stop to think about what that said about me.
Still, despite all of it, I knew my time listening to Claire was running out.
Final exams were wrapping up next week, and after that everyone would head home for the summer. Next year we wouldn’t even be living in the dorms anymore. Claire was moving into a house off campus with two of her girlfriends, while I’d already signed a lease for a tiny studio apartment a few blocks from campus.
I wouldn’t be two doors down from her anymore.
And somewhere underneath all the weirdness, all the obsession, a small part of me still wanted to tell Claire how I felt.
Just say it. Get it off my chest. See what happened.
After all, if she rejected me… it wouldn’t be like we’d have to see each other every day anymore, right?
There was an end-of-year party next weekend at a house some of our mutual friends rented off campus. I already knew Claire would be there.
So I set a deadline for myself.
That night, I’d either tell Claire how I felt – or keep it to myself forever.