I glance down at my chest, glad that at least the cold December air gives me an excuse for my rock hard nipples. I am relieved no one else can see the other signs of my arousal, such as the fact that I am literally dripping wet in my panties. I’m not wearing nearly enough clothing, just a skirt that hits me mid-thigh and a light sweater–but for what I have planned, it is perfect. Besides, the cold nipping at my skin would help me muster the courage to go through with my plan.
I cross the quad, waving at a few students that I know, but I barely make eye contact. My desires at the moment do not include stopping to chat with friends. This fantasy… jeez, is it even a fantasy? Maybe this is an obsession. Whatever it is, it has been building for four and a half years, and it is truly now or never.
When I was a freshman, I hooked up with some random guy during orientation week. He was unremarkable. I barely remember anything about him. But what I do remember was his roommate. They shared a dorm room, and as I was leaving, his roommate entered the room, clad only in a towel. I clearly had fucked the wrong roommate. I honestly hooked up with that guy again just to see if I could find out more info about his roommate.
I learned he was a wrestler. His physique was amazing, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve dreamt about him fucking me with every single sex partner I’ve had since I’ve come to college. It’s funny; I don’t even remember his face, but I’ll never forget his body. His shoulders were broad, his back was shaped like a V, and the muscles on his torso and his arms… God, his abs were amazing, and I remember a little tattoo of an anchor right below his belly button. His face escapes me, but I still dream about those abs.
I actually became a resident adviser in my dorm room, just so I could have a private suite so I could masturbate to thoughts of him. Many a night found me sprawled on my back in bed, one hand playing with my breasts and several fingers thrusting in and out of my wet pussy, imagining that it was his cock bringing me to a series of unending orgasms.
He must have been an upperclassman, because I haven’t seen him since my hookup with his roommate in my freshman year. I assume he graduated, not that I would have recognized him without his shirt so I could see that little anchor tattoo. But ultimately, it didn’t even matter. I became obsessed with the entire wrestling team.
I Facebook stalked them. I went to a few wrestling events, but not all of them. Word would obviously spread if a girl who was not dating a guy on the team showed up at every single match. But my pulse would accelerate and my pussy would become wet, just watching their bodies move and their muscles strain as they wrestled together. At one match, the straps on one of the guy’s wrestling singlets snapped, and he finished wrestling, completely bared to the waist and glistening with sweat. My God, I practically had an orgasm then and there, on the spot.
After the matches, some of the guys would pull the straps of their singlets off, exposing their upper torsos, and they would just walk around like it was the most natural thing in the world. I became so obsessed with wrestling, I didn’t even have a type anymore. Whether they were ripped with muscles or just solid and toned, sleek and smooth or covered in chest hair… I wanted them all.
But I never dated one. I never fucked one. I never had the guts. I think I realized, even then, that to actually approach a wrestler would ruin the fantasy. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I fucked plenty of guys in my years on campus, thinking of our wrestling team every time. I just didn’t want to let my obsession disappear.
That’s what leads me to this situation. I’m finally graduating, a semester late (even though no one graduates in four years anyway). My dorm room will belong to someone else in the spring semester.
I’m not planning to fuck one of the players. I just know I have to do something. I have fantasized and obsessed for too long, and I have to have one good wrestling story.
I walk up to the gym doors, peering through the glass. The gymnasium is empty. Not surprising – most of campus has already cleared out for the holidays. This will literally be the perfect day to do it. Letting myself in, I breathe a sigh of relief that the front desk isn’t manned. No one would even know I was around.
As though I belong there, I walk down the short hallway behind the front desk to the changing rooms. My plan is simple, but honestly… it seems foolproof. I am going to go into the wrestling team’s locker room, get myself off, and sneak back out. That’s it. I just want to bring myself to an orgasm in the same place where those glorious, gorgeous men I fantasize about daily met, changed, and showered. And if I am discovered, I can feign ignorance. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I’ll cry. “I wanted to get a final workout in before I left campus, but I didn’t realize this wasn’t the women’s locker room!”
It will work. Girls don’t sneak into the men’s locker room. If I was a guy obsessed with the female volleyball team, this little escapade would be harder. But for me… I’m a cute little brunette who looks as All-American and non-threatening as they come. I will be believed.
That’s why I wore the skirt. I’m not going to do anything crazy. I am going to walk around, find a quiet place, get myself off quickly while remaining fully clothed, and leave. Piece of cake.
The wrestling team’s locker room is near the front of the hall. That will help my alibi, if caught. I can just say I went in the first locker room I found. The wrestling coach’s office is directly opposite the door, but it is dark inside. Perfect. That means he is gone for the day, if not the semester.
“Hello?” I ask as I slowly push the locker room door open. The lights are off, and I reach inside and flick them on. This couldn’t be going better. Literally no one is around. I slip inside and shut the door behind me.
There is a small privacy hallway in the locker room, a simple turn around a brick wall to prevent anyone walking by the door to see in, if it were open. I slowly walk in the hallway, and as soon as I enter the open locker room area, the smell hits me.
It reeks. It smells of sweat and deodorant, oddly mingled together. And I have never smelled anything more enticing in my entire life. My pulse quickens, and my pussy aches to be touched.
There is a long bench down the center of the room, and dark maroon lockers line both walls. At the back, there is a simple sink, two urinals and one stall, a floor to ceiling mirror, and an open shower room. In one corner, a pile of wrestling mats is stacked chest high. There is nowhere to hide in here, but it doesn’t matter. I am completely alone.
I touch one of the lockers, letting my fingers trail across its glossy surface. It’s locked. Most of them are. But then, I see that locker number 47 has an open lock. Walking over to it, I open it and peer inside. A wrinkled maroon singlet lies in a heap at the bottom. From one of the hooks at the top dangles a jock strap. Worn. Used.
Am I that perverted? Am I so obsessed that I am about to pick up the jock strap, hold it in my hands, and smell it?
I can only describe the scent as the smell of a man. After glancing around again to make sure no one is watching me, I slide a hand down to my skirt, lift it up, and rub myself. My panties are literally soaked. They are juicy. I moan and thrust against my hand as I trace my swollen lips. Biting my lower lip, I whimper as I rub the length of my slit, grinding my heel against my imprisoned clit.
Hurriedly, I put the jock back in the locker and close the door. Leaning against the cool surface of the lockers, I grind against myself hard, moaning as I do so. In my mind’s eye, I picture the different wrestlers I have seen over the years. I can see them walking around the locker room, some with towels around their waist, others completely nude…changing into and out of their tight singlets. I picture their horseplay, towels being snapped at hard, tight butts. I imagine them standing together in the shower room, naked and sharing stories of their latest sexual conquests.
My breathing is ragged as I rub myself as hard as I can. My panties are in the fucking way!
I see the stack of wrestling mats again, and it occurs to me that they practice on those. Their sweaty, muscular bodies have wrestled on those mats.
My decision made, I hurry over to them and quickly climb atop them. They are a bit higher than I expected, but aside from their coolness against my hot skin, they’re surprisingly comfortable. I push my panties down to my ankles, and I touch my feverishly hot pussy.
I moan aloud as my hand rubs my slick juices around my labia. Even with my obsession, I’m a little surprised at how turned on I am. I part my labia and plunge two fingers as deep into my pussy as I can. Still whimpering, unable to stop my sounds, I thrust my fingers in and out. With my other hand, I find my clit, and I rub myself from side to side. The tiny organ responds to my touch, and I cry out.
My orgasm is coming; I am so ridiculously close, and I continue to fuck myself with my fingers and rub my clitoris. “So close,” I pant to myself.
I can’t believe how aroused I am. I still picture the wrestling team, but now, it is their hands on me instead of my own. Their cocks stand out, proud and erect, all around me, as numerous hands cover my body. In my fantasy, one of them, perhaps my nameless crush from freshman year, steps forward with his dick in hand, prepared to slide it into my wet pussy.