The Choice (2 page)

I’d been up before, for interviews, which had passed in a terrifying haze and in the company of other candidates, every one of whom was older than me and seemed infinitely wiser. The medieval surroundings and atmosphere of self-assured scholarship had left me feeling not only that I was certain to be rejected but also that I was guilty of gross impudence in even daring to apply. Now at least I knew that I was worthy, but I was still filled with awe as I got off the bus and dragged my cases down the narrow cobbled street onto which the main doors of St Boniface College opened.

Another piece of Dad’s advice had been to make sure I got on with the porters, so I gave the two men in the lodge my most ingratiating smile as I asked for my keys. They took a moment to find them, with me imagining that there had been some horrible mistake and that I hadn’t really got in at all, before a white envelope was tossed down on the desk in front of me.

‘There we are, Miss. You’re one of the lucky ones. Old Quad four nine.’

I had no idea what he was talking about, but managed to find my way across a wide cloistered quadrangle, flanked by tall buildings and the chapel, to another quadrangle, also cloistered, but so small that with the sun starting to go down it formed a cool dim well between towering walls. My staircase, number four, was on the far side, and I’d already guessed that my room, number nine, would be at the top. I spent a moment looking helpless in the hope of some gentlemanly passerby
offering
to carry my cases, but there was nobody about. That left me no choice but to lug them up three flights of stone stairs to a door, that looked as if it should have opened onto a torture chamber in some ancient castle, showed the numbers nine and ten.

There was a modern lock in it, which responded to one of the keys I’d been given, revealing two more doors, both modern, in that they looked as if they’d been made fifty years ago rather than five hundred. Mine was on the left, marked by a brass nine and more importantly a name tag reading
P. MILLER
, the simplest possible statement, but one that at last brought home to me that I was, finally, an Oxford undergraduate.

I quickly let myself in to a small oblong room with a high ceiling and view across low slate roofs to the whole of central Oxford; spires and domes and towers, high gable ends and long attics roofed with dark slate, tawny walls and sheets of lead or copper, windows and skylights glistening in the autumn sunlight, with here and there a tree poking up from among the buildings, yellow and russet leaves a perfect match for the muted colours of the city.

I stayed as I was, indifferent to my immediate, rather stark surroundings, drinking in a view, as splendid in its way as the moors seen from the hill above my home, and which I knew would stay with me for the rest of my life. The porter had been right to say I was one of the lucky ones, because if everything else came to grief I would still have had my time in such a beautiful place.

When I finally managed to pull myself away from the window I took stock of my room. It was bare and simple, with a bed, a chest of drawers and a desk on which sat a new and expensive-looking computer. A section had been screened off to provide a minute bathroom, without which it would have resembled a monastic cell, appropriately enough given the
origins
of the university. There was a small empty fridge and a kettle but no tea or coffee, and I decided I’d go on a shopping trip as soon as I’d unpacked.

I was halfway through putting my things away when I caught the sound of music, very faint but clearly coming from the room next door. It was classical, or at least not pop, and unlike anything I’d heard, melodic but oddly dissonant, at once both exciting and disturbing. I immediately resolved to visit my new neighbour the moment I’d finished unpacking.

Nobody could call me shy, but I hesitated before knocking on the door. The name tag was no more informative than my own, saying just
V. AUBREY
, which didn’t even tell me if the occupant was male or female, although it had me imagining the sort of sybaritic young man Evelyn Waugh liked to portray. The music suggested something similar, maybe even more exotic, and if so I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to introduce myself in a pair of sloppy jeans and a baggy jumper.

As I stepped away my eyes were drawn to the invitingly large keyhole. One quick peep wasn’t going to hurt and would give me an idea of what to expect, although if she, or he, happened to open the door while I was kneeling directly in front of it I would have a bit of explaining to do. I did it anyway, ducking quickly down and putting my eye to the keyhole, through which I could see most of the room, including the desk, and the bed. V. Aubrey was a Victoria, or possibly a Valerie, but very definitely female.

She lay on her bed, stretched out on her back, reading a book, her eyes rapt in concentration on the page. Her face was made up, skilfully but more heavily than I’d have expected, with a rich red lipstick and a lot of eye shadow, while her dark hair was cut into a short bob. All of which gave her a lazy, sensual look I wouldn’t have expected in an undergraduate, but more unexpected by far was what she was doing. All she had on
was
a pair of loose and very lacy French knickers, with one hand down the front, gently massaging herself as she read.

It obviously wasn’t a good moment to call, and I retired from the keyhole, my cheeks hot with embarrassment but at the same time trying not to giggle. I moved back into my room, slowly and very quietly, although to judge by the look of sleepy pleasure on her face she wouldn’t have noticed unless I’d slammed my door as hard as I could. There was no doubt at all that she’d been playing with herself, something I’d only ever done in the warmth and darkness of my own bedroom, something very private indeed.

I knew I’d intruded, badly, and should have felt ashamed of myself, but my fingers were shaking uncontrollably and I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. She’d looked so sultry, and so impossibly calm, completely and utterly relaxed as she teased herself towards orgasm without a care in the world or the slightest suspicion of guilt. I wanted to do it myself, just like her, which was very definitely not how I’d imagined spending my first afternoon at Oxford. I also wanted to watch.

That was out of the question, not only because it was a dreadful thing to do, but because she was a woman, and because she might catch me. Then again, it wasn’t really very likely. If she got up I could nip back into my own room long before she got to her door, or if necessary pretend I’d been on my way out. Besides, she was the one who was being dirty with herself, not me. It was still a dreadful thing to do, but the fact that we were the same sex wasn’t really an issue. After all, I knew myself well enough to be sure I preferred boys, and I’d only be watching. Maybe it wasn’t even that dreadful …

I picked up my keys so that I’d be able to pretend I’d been on my way out if she did catch me, telling myself I’d just have another quick peek. Very carefully, I opened my door. Hers was
at
an angle to mine, the keyhole temptingly close. I could duck down with half my body still in my own room, allowing me to retreat in an instant. Still I hesitated, listening, but all I could hear was her music, which now seemed compellingly sexual, drawing me to watch.

My resistance gave way and I put my eye to the keyhole. She was as before; her slim, languid body stretched out on the bed, her mouth a little open and her eyes closed, an image of sensual bliss that had my tummy fluttering. Her hand was still down her knickers as well, but her fingers were now moving to a fast, excited rhythm, making little bumps in the black silk as she circled her clitoris.

She’d dropped her book, which lay open on the bed beside her face, but as I watched her eyes came open again, to scan the page in front of her. A shiver ran through her and she suddenly shifted position, onto her back, lifting and opening her legs. One hand went to cup a high, pointed breast, stroking the stiff red nipple at the top. I’d been in the same position myself often enough, giving me a flush of embarrassment at the thought of how I must have looked.

That didn’t stop me. She was going to come, and I was going to watch, however bad it made me feel. I wanted to touch myself too, but that was a step too far. She was a woman, after all, and, however beautiful, however much I might appreciate her body aesthetically, I was not going to play with myself while I watched her. That was out of the question.

Again she moved, as suddenly as before, flipping herself over on the bed into a kneeling position, her long, slender thighs braced apart, her back curved into an elegant swan’s neck to push her neatly rounded bottom high, her cheeks bulging in the black silk of her knickers. Now I could imagine what she was thinking, of a man behind her, about to push
himself
deep inside as she offered her sex in that most wanton of poses.

I’d been in the same position myself often enough, for Ewan and for others, completely open and uninhibited. It felt deeply erotic, and deeply feminine, rude too, with everything showing for my lover’s enjoyment, and also submissive. She felt the same, I was sure, because she had reached back and very slowly slid her knickers down over her bottom, just as if she was exposing herself to a man for penetration.

She’d certainly exposed herself to me, and I couldn’t help but think of how I’d look in the same pose, my knickers pulled down over my bottom to show off every intimate detail between my cheeks and between my thighs, my sex ready to be entered, just as hers was, moist and open, ready to have my lover’s beautiful cock slid in to the very hilt. With that thought my will snapped and I gave in to my vivid sexual imagination, always my weakness.

My hand went between my legs, to find the soft shape of my sex beneath my jeans, my fingers pressing hard to rub at myself, every bit as rude and wanton as she was. I wished I was in the same position, my thoughts running away with me as my excitement rose, imagining us side by side, kneeling on the bed, bottoms up and knickers down with two forceful young men behind us, our boyfriends, erect cocks in their hands, gloating over our exposure as they got ready to enter us.

She was coming, her body shivering with excitement, her fingers busy with her sex, a sight at once so rude and so compelling that it tipped me over the edge. I bit my lip in a frantic effort to stop myself crying out as it hit me, my mind still burning with the fantasy I’d created, now stronger and ruder still. We were still together, poised to be entered from behind, but the young men weren’t our boyfriends, just two arrogant
bastards
from the college, who’d got us drunk and teased us into playing cards for our clothes, got us stripped topless and had us suck their cocks, made us kneel and stick our bums in the air, pulled down our knickers and taken turns to fuck us both.

It was that last awful detail that really got to me, the idea of being shared by two men, and not in private but side by side with my beautiful neighbour so that each of us knew exactly how rude the other had been. I’d lost my balance as I climaxed, sitting hard on the floor and knocking against my door to make it swing back and crash against its hinges. She had to have heard, and I scrambled quickly back into my room on all fours, my legs still shaking from the force of my orgasm.

I was sure she was going to catch me, and my face was burning hot as I scrambled to my feet, my blushes a sure giveaway that I’d been watching her. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking either, and I felt so hot and wet between my thighs I was sure I’d have a telltale damp patch on the front of my jeans. The only sensible thing to do was to get into the shower, but as I stripped off common sense slowly began to return.

She couldn’t possibly know I’d been watching her, and all she’d have heard was the bang of my door. Even if she’d guessed, she was hardly going to stride in, wearing nothing but her fancy French knickers, and accuse me of being a Peeping Thomasina, even though that was exactly what I was.

2

MY GUILTY FEELINGS
didn’t last very long. I’d only just sorted myself out after my shower when she knocked on the door to introduce herself. After that things took off at such a pace that I had no time to fret over my bad behaviour. She wasn’t a Victoria, or a Valerie, but a Violet – Violet Aubrey, and she was a graduate, in the second year of a D.Phil. in Fine Art. She was also fascinating; so languid and sensual in her manner that it was easy to see her not as a student of art, but as an artist’s muse.

I knew immediately that she didn’t have the sort of connections I was supposed to be making, but she knew the college inside out and was keen to show me around. On the Sunday evening I was in her room, sat on the bed with my back to the wall sipping coffee as she explained how to cope with Freshers’ Week.

‘… says in the Handbook that there’s something for everybody, which is true, and I know you can’t hope to do everything, but do try to sample as many different things as possible.’

‘Thanks, but I know what I need to do, and what to avoid.’

‘You’re very confident, but do keep an open mind or you might miss out on something that changes your whole life. How do you mean, what to avoid?’

‘Anything that could come back to haunt me in later life. I’m going into politics.’

‘Oh.’

She didn’t sound very happy, let alone impressed, but quickly
brightened
up again as she went on. ‘Keep an open mind, that’s all. When I first came up I was such a little mouse I hardly knew what to do.’

‘I can’t believe that!’

‘A lot has happened since then. So you’re going to be a university student, are you?’

The way she’d suddenly changed the topic of conversation intrigued me, as if she wanted to avoid talking about something, but so did her question, which I didn’t understand at all.

‘What do you mean? Aren’t we all university students?’

‘Some students stick very much with their college, like the rowing club. Others are more involved with wider university life; the Chamber and that sort of thing.’