Quiet Hours
"He's a senior stuck in dorm life for one more semester. The new RA catches him breaking curfew. She invites him to her room to discuss alternatives. Her door has a lock."
I'm too old for this.
Twenty-three years old, finishing a double major that took an extra year, living in a freshman dormitory because the housing office screwed up my placement. I should be in an apartment. Should be living like an adult.
Instead, I'm sneaking back to Wilson Hall at 2 AM, hoping the new RA doesn't catch me breaking curfew.
The new RA catches me breaking curfew.
"Ethan Miller." She's standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, clipboard in hand. "Quiet hours are 10 PM to 7 AM. It's currently..."—she checks her phone—"2:14 AM."
"Diana. Listen—"
"It's Ms. Torres when I'm working." She walks toward me, each step deliberate. "And I'm always working."
Diana Torres is a first-year grad student. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. She transferred in this semester to run some professor's lab and somehow ended up as our RA.
She's also impossible to ignore.
Curvy is the polite word. She's got hips that don't fit through doorways without care, breasts that strain every professional blouse she owns, and an ass that seniors whisper about in the dining hall. Her hair is dark and wild, never quite tamed by the ponytails she tries. Her skin is brown, her eyes are darker, and her mouth is currently set in a line of professional disapproval.
"This is your third violation this month," she says. "One more and I have to escalate to Housing."
"Diana—Ms. Torres—I'm a senior. I shouldn't even be in this building."
"And yet here you are. Breaking rules that apply to everyone."
"I was at the library. Working. I lost track of time."
"The library closes at midnight."
Shit. "I was at a friend's apartment. Also working. Different kind of work."
"Were you drinking?"
"No."
"Can you prove that?"
"Can you prove I was?"
She almost smiles. Almost.
"My room," she says. "Now. We need to discuss your options."
Her room is at the end of the hall.
It's bigger than the standard dorm rooms—RA privilege—with a bed, a desk, a small couch, and a mini-fridge that probably contains the contraband she confiscates from freshmen.
"Sit," she says, gesturing to the couch.
I sit.
She doesn't. She leans against her desk, arms still crossed, studying me.
"You're not like the others," she says.
"The other residents?"
"The other rule-breakers. They're eighteen, nineteen. Drunk. Loud. They don't know any better." She tilts her head. "You know better. You just don't care."
"I care about finishing my degree. The dorm rules are... less relevant."
"The dorm rules are my job." She uncrosses her arms. "Which puts us in an awkward position."
"How so?"
"Because I'm supposed to enforce them." She pushes off the desk, walks toward me. "And I'm supposed to report violations. And I'm supposed to escalate to Housing when residents become chronic problems."
"But?"
"But I don't want to." She stops in front of the couch. Close. Too close. "Because you're interesting, Ethan Miller. And I don't want to lose the most interesting person on my floor to a bureaucratic write-up."
"What do you want instead?"
She reaches down. Takes my chin in her hand. Tilts my face up.
"I want you to give me a reason to look the other way."
"This is a bad idea," I say.
"Probably." Her thumb traces my jaw. "But I've been watching you for months. Coming in late. Missing floor meetings. Ignoring every rule like it doesn't apply to you."
"It shouldn't apply to me."
"That's not your decision." Her other hand finds my shoulder. "But it is mine. And I've decided that I'm tired of watching you walk past my door without stopping."
"Diana—"
"You called me Diana." She leans down. Her face is inches from mine. "Does that mean you're interested?"
I grab her hips and pull her onto my lap.
She gasps—surprised but pleased—and suddenly she's straddling me on her dorm couch, her weight settling onto my thighs, her breasts pressing against my chest.
"That's a yes," she breathes.
"That's a fuck yes."
I kiss her.
She tastes like mint and something sweeter.
Her mouth is hungry, demanding, taking as much as she gives. Her hips rock against mine, grinding on my lap with a rhythm that suggests she's been thinking about this for a while.
"Off," she pants, pulling at my shirt. "I want to see you."
I pull the shirt over my head. Her hands explore my chest—years of recreational sports have left their mark—and she makes a sound that might be approval.
"My turn," I say.
I unbutton her blouse. Under it: a bra that's working overtime to contain her. Black lace, straining at every seam.
"They're big," she says. Almost defensive. "I know they're—"
"Perfect." I unclasp the bra. They spill free—massive, soft, with dark nipples that are already hard. "Jesus, Diana. They're perfect."
She exhales. Like she's been waiting to hear that.
"Then show me."
I bury my face in her chest.
Her breasts are everywhere.
Soft and warm and smothering. I lick between them, under them, around them. Take one nipple in my mouth and suck while she moans above me.
"Yes—God—"
I switch to the other side. Bite gently. She bucks on my lap, grinding harder against the erection she's definitely noticed.
"I need—" She's pulling at my belt. "I need to feel you—"
"Slow down."
"I've been slow for months." She gets my belt open, my zipper down. "Watching you. Wanting you. Writing reports about your curfew violations while I touched myself—"
"You touched yourself thinking about me?"
"Every time you broke the rules." She frees my cock from my boxers. Wraps her hand around it. "Every time you walked past my door with that look like nothing could touch you."
"Something's touching me now."
"Something's about to do a lot more than touch you."
She stands. Shimmies out of her skirt. Her underwear matches the bra—black lace, soaked through.
"I want you to eat me first," she says. "On your knees. Show me you've earned the right to break my rules."
I kneel.
She sits on the edge of her bed, spreads her thighs, and I get my first real look at her. She's shaved—or waxed—smooth except for a neat strip above. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parting as I watch.
"Well?" Her voice is strained. "What are you waiting for?"
I press my mouth to her.
She cries out—loud enough that I hope these walls are thick—and her thighs clamp around my head. She's wet and hot and tastes like heaven. I find her clit and circle it with my tongue.
"There—right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I eat her like I've been starving, like she's the first meal I've had in months. My tongue finds every spot that makes her gasp. My lips suck her clit until she screams. My fingers slide inside her and curl up, finding the place that makes her lose language entirely.
"I'm—fuck—going to—"
She comes on my face.
Her whole body shakes. Her thighs crush my ears. She grabs my hair and holds me in place while she rides out wave after wave.
I don't let up.
I push her into a second orgasm. A third. By the fourth, she's begging.
"Please—I need you inside me—need to feel—"
I climb up her body.
She's still shaking when I enter her.
Her curvy body yields around me—soft thighs, soft belly, soft breasts pressing against my chest. She's tight despite everything, and wet, and burning hot.
"Yes—" She wraps her legs around me. "That's what I wanted—"
I start to move.
Slow at first. Feeling her. Learning her rhythms. She's responsive to everything—gasping when I go deep, moaning when I pull back, screaming when I find the angle that hits just right.
"Harder—God—don't hold back—"
I don't hold back.
I fuck her into the dorm mattress while she claws at my back. The bed frame hits the wall—steady, rhythmic—and I hope the residents on the other side appreciate the violation of quiet hours.
"So good—fuck—you feel so good—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to make me come again—want to feel you come inside me—"
I grab her hips, lift them, change the angle. Drive into her at the spot that made her scream before.
"RIGHT THERE—"
She shatters.
I feel it—the clench, the pulse, the way her whole body goes rigid. She's coming so hard she can't make sound anymore, just silent gasps while her eyes roll back.
I let go.
Fill her while she shakes. My own orgasm crashes through me—white-hot, blinding, the best I've had in years.
We collapse.
Gasping. Sweating. Tangled in dorm-issue sheets that will definitely need washing.
"Quiet hours," Diana finally says, "have been thoroughly violated."
Later, we're lying in her narrow bed.
Her curvy body fits against mine perfectly—all that softness molding to my angles.
"The write-up," I say.
"What write-up?" She traces a finger along my chest. "I don't remember any violations."
"You checked your clipboard."
"Must have been a different resident." She props herself up on one elbow. Her breasts shift, heavy and distracting. "Unless you want me to file something?"
"I want you to tell me the rules."
"What rules?"
"Your rules. For this... arrangement."
She considers. "One: discretion. No one finds out about this. You're a resident, I'm an RA. This ends both our academic careers if it goes public."
"Agreed."
"Two: you still follow the actual rules. No loud parties, no contraband, no bullshit that makes me look bad to Housing."
"Reasonable."
"Three..." She leans down, kisses me slowly. "You spend at least three nights a week in this room. Breaking quiet hours. Quietly."
"That's a lot of nights."
"I told you." She straddles me, and I realize I'm getting hard again. "I've been thinking about this for months. I have a lot of time to make up."
She sinks onto me.
I stop thinking about rules.
The semester passes.
I break curfew every night. Diana writes zero violations. We fuck on her couch, her bed, her desk, the floor of her room when the bed seems too far away.
On graduation day, I'm walking across campus when I feel a hand on my arm.
"Mr. Miller." Diana is in civilian clothes—a sundress that shows off every curve. "Congratulations on surviving your final semester."
"Thanks to my very understanding RA."
"She sounds wonderful." Diana looks around. No one is watching. "I'm not your RA anymore. Housing contract ended yesterday."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm just Diana Torres now. Grad student. Free agent." She steps closer. "And I'm moving into an apartment next month. One bedroom. Space for two, if someone wanted to help with rent."
"That sounds like an invitation."
"It sounds like a suggestion." She hands me a slip of paper. An address. A phone number. "Think about it."
She walks away. Her hips sway with every step.
I don't need to think about it.
I already know where I'll be spending next semester.