I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not here. Not now. Not with him just a few feet away, probably drunk off his ass at some party I hadn’t bothered to join. But there I was, sprawled on my bed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, the fabric riding up my thighs as I shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t intentional. It never was. I just… needed something to hold onto. Something to anchor me. So I grabbed the pillow and wedged it between my legs, pressing it firmly against me. It was just supposed to be comforting, like the weight of a warm hug. But tonight, it felt… different.The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner, its cool breeze brushing against my skin. I didn’t think much of it at first—just a slight shift of my hips, testing the pressure. Then again. And again. Each movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it sent a strange, tingling warmth through my body. My breath hitched, and I bit down on my lip, trying to ignore the sudden ache building between my thighs. I shouldn’t have kept going. I knew that. But my body had other ideas. My hips began to roll slowly, deliberately, grinding against the pillow in a rhythm that felt almost instinctual. My thighs tightened, and I could feel the heat pooling low in my stomach. My t-shirt had ridden up completely now, exposing the curve of my waist and the soft dip of my lower abdomen. I didn’t bother fixing it. I couldn’t. Not when every movement sent another delicious shiver down my spine.My breathing grew heavier, my chest rising and falling in time with the steady rocking of my hips. I buried my face in the pillow, muffling the soft, involuntary moan that escaped my lips. I was so close. So close to that edge, teetering on the brink of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in weeks. My fingers dug into the pillow, clutching it tighter, desperate for release.That’s when I heard it—the faint creak of the door opening.My eyes snapped open, and I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I thought I was imagining it at first, some cruel trick of my overactive mind. But then I saw him. Him. My roommate. Standing in the doorway, keys dangling from one hand, his phone clutched in the other. And those eyes—those fucking eyes—locked onto me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. My body was still pressed against the pillow, my hips stilled mid-roll. My t-shirt was bunched up around my ribs, my bare legs spread shamelessly across the bed. I was exposed. Vulnerable. And he just stood there, staring. Not saying a word. Not even blinking. My face burned with embarrassment, but I couldn’t look away. My body was still thrumming with need, the ache between my thighs impossible to ignore. I should have stopped. I should have covered myself, apologized, something. But I didn’t. Instead, I slowed my movements, grinding into the pillow with a deliberate, almost teasing rhythm. My eyes stayed locked on his, daring him to look away. He didn’t.My breath came in short, ragged gasps now, the tension in my body coiling tighter and tighter. I could feel it—the moment when I was about to tip over the edge. My thighs trembled, my hips stuttering as I edged closer and closer to that sweet, unbearable release. And then it hit me, a wave of pleasure so intense it left me breathless. My back arched, my fingers clutching the pillow as a soft moan escaped my lips. I came like that—naked, exposed, with him watching every second of it.When the haze finally cleared, I expected him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He just turned away, walked across the room, and grabbed something from his desk. Then he left, closing the door behind him without a single word.The next day, it was like nothing had happened. He didn’t mention it. Didn’t even acknowledge it. But I could feel it—the weight of his gaze every time he looked at me. It was different now. Heavier. More… knowing. And every time our eyes met, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about it too. If he remembered how I’d looked, how I’d moved. If he wanted to see it again.I didn’t know what to do with that—the way he looked at me now, like he could see straight through me. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. It was unnerving. Exciting. And it lingered in the back of my mind, a constant, nagging presence I couldn’t shake.Because deep down, I knew one thing for certain: I wanted him to look at me like that again.

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not here. Not now. Not with _him_ just a few feet away, probably drunk off his ass at some party I hadn’t bothered to join. But there I was, sprawled on my bed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, the fabric riding up my thighs as I shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t intentional. It never was. I just… needed something to hold onto. Something to anchor me. So I grabbed the pillow and wedged it between my legs, pressing it firmly against me. It was just supposed to be comforting, like the weight of a warm hug. But tonight, it felt… different.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner, its cool breeze brushing against my skin. I didn’t think much of it at first—just a slight shift of my hips, testing the pressure. Then again. And again. Each movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it sent a strange, tingling warmth through my body. My breath hitched, and I bit down on my lip, trying to ignore the sudden ache building between my thighs. 

I shouldn’t have kept going. I knew that. But my body had other ideas. My hips began to roll slowly, deliberately, grinding against the pillow in a rhythm that felt almost instinctual. My thighs tightened, and I could feel the heat pooling low in my stomach. My t-shirt had ridden up completely now, exposing the curve of my waist and the soft dip of my lower abdomen. I didn’t bother fixing it. I couldn’t. Not when every movement sent another delicious shiver down my spine.

My breathing grew heavier, my chest rising and falling in time with the steady rocking of my hips. I buried my face in the pillow, muffling the soft, involuntary moan that escaped my lips. I was so close. So close to that edge, teetering on the brink of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in weeks. My fingers dug into the pillow, clutching it tighter, desperate for release.

That’s when I heard it—the faint creak of the door opening.

My eyes snapped open, and I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I thought I was imagining it at first, some cruel trick of my overactive mind. But then I saw him. _Him._ My roommate. Standing in the doorway, keys dangling from one hand, his phone clutched in the other. And those eyes—those fucking eyes—locked onto me. 

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. My body was still pressed against the pillow, my hips stilled mid-roll. My t-shirt was bunched up around my ribs, my bare legs spread shamelessly across the bed. I was exposed. Vulnerable. And he just stood there, staring. Not saying a word. Not even blinking. 

My face burned with embarrassment, but I couldn’t look away. My body was still thrumming with need, the ache between my thighs impossible to ignore. I should have stopped. I should have covered myself, apologized, _something._ But I didn’t. Instead, I slowed my movements, grinding into the pillow with a deliberate, almost teasing rhythm. My eyes stayed locked on his, daring him to look away. 

He didn’t.

My breath came in short, ragged gasps now, the tension in my body coiling tighter and tighter. I could feel it—the moment when I was about to tip over the edge. My thighs trembled, my hips stuttering as I edged closer and closer to that sweet, unbearable release. And then it hit me, a wave of pleasure so intense it left me breathless. My back arched, my fingers clutching the pillow as a soft moan escaped my lips. I came like that—naked, exposed, with him watching every second of it.

When the haze finally cleared, I expected him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He just turned away, walked across the room, and grabbed something from his desk. Then he left, closing the door behind him without a single word.

The next day, it was like nothing had happened. He didn’t mention it. Didn’t even acknowledge it. But I could feel it—the weight of his gaze every time he looked at me. It was different now. Heavier. More… knowing. And every time our eyes met, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about it too. If he remembered how I’d looked, how I’d moved. If he wanted to see it again.

I didn’t know what to do with that—the way he looked at me now, like he could see straight through me. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. It was unnerving. Exciting. And it lingered in the back of my mind, a constant, nagging presence I couldn’t shake.

Because deep down, I knew one thing for certain: _I wanted him to look at me like that again._

A young woman, alone in her dorm room, finds unexpected pleasure in a late-night moment of self-discovery. Her roommate, returning home unexpectedly, catches her in the act, leading to a silent, charged encounter that lingers between them long after the night has passed.

The tension between the two roommates builds as they navigate the aftermath of the encounter, with the woman unable to shake the memory of his gaze and the newfound intensity of their silent interactions.

He caught me humping my pillow and I didn’t stop

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