Roommate

I'm Nastya, I'm nineteen years old. I have bright red hair that always curls slightly at the ends, and a slender figure that I inherited from doing track and field in my school years. I used to run fast, my body was toned, flexible, but then my breasts grew so much—a full fourth cup size, firm and heavy—that training became a complete inconvenience. The sports bra chafed, they bounced with every step, and in the end, I quit sports. Studying was still a must, so after college, I enrolled in an institute in another city. The dorm turned out to be horrible—noise, dirt, cockroaches—so I had to rent an apartment. My parents covered part of the rent, and the rest

I earned myself: writing essays, notes, sometimes even theses for lazy students. The money was just enough, but then the landlord raised the rent, and things got tight. I had to look for a roommate.

But after a couple of weeks, problems started. He always left dirty dishes behind—mugs, plates, forks piled up in the sink. I washed them because I couldn't stand the mess, but it pissed me off. A couple of times, I approached him, asked him to clean up after himself—he nodded absently, promised, but zero results. The pile grew again.

And then that day happened. Everything was falling apart: exams were coming up, a thesis order was delayed, my mood was at rock bottom. In winter, the radiators blasted so hard that the apartment was a sauna. Wearing clothes was impossible—sweat poured in streams. I decided to stay in something light: short shorts that barely covered my butt and a thin tank top without a bra. No underwear at all. Why bother, if I'm at home? My breasts swayed freely under the fabric, my nipples slightly visible, but I thought: Artyom won't notice anything anyway, buried in his books.

I went to the kitchen for water and there was that pile of dishes again. I got completely furious. I went to his room without knocking.

He was sitting by the open window—a cold winter wind blowing right into the room, apparently airing it out. I started lecturing him: "Artyom, how long can this go on? You promised to clean up! This isn't a dorm, we're living together!" My voice rose, I was gesturing. And from the draft, goosebumps ran over my skin, my nipples instantly hardened, standing stiff under the thin tank top. The fabric clung to my breasts, everything became visible—the shape and the protruding bumps.

And then I noticed his gaze. He wasn't looking away like usual. His eyes slid over me—over my bare legs, over the shorts digging into my thighs, and then up, to my breasts. He literally stared at my protruding nipples, his face flushed, his breathing quickened. As if he was seeing me for the first time. Not the absent-minded bookworm, but a guy who suddenly realized that a half-naked girl was living next door—aroused from anger and cold.

I finished yelling, turned around, and left, feeling my breasts bounce with every step. And he… within five minutes, he was washing all the dishes. Thoroughly, until they shone. And for the next week, he behaved perfectly—cleaned up, left no trace.

I relaxed and continued walking around the apartment the same way—in shorts and a tank top, sometimes even without a tank top if it was really hot. I thought he wasn't looking, buried in his formulas. But I was wrong.

A week later, I noticed something strange: the underwear in my drawer wasn't as I left it. Panties were turned over, some slightly damp to the touch. The smell… masculine. I understood everything immediately. This "bookworm" was sneaking into my room and touching my things.

The solution came on its own: catch him in the act. In the evening, I announced loudly: "Artyom, I'm going for a walk, I'll be back late!" I slammed the front door, but tiptoed back into the bedroom myself and hid in the closet, leaving a crack to see.

I didn't wait long. About ten minutes later, the bedroom door creaked quietly. He entered cautiously, looking around. He walked to the dresser, opened the underwear drawer. His hands were trembling as he started sorting through my panties—lace, cotton, thongs. He chose a black, thin pair, brought them to his face, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, his lips parted slightly.

Then another pair—the ones I wore yesterday. He pressed them to his nose, inhaled deeply, groaned quietly. I saw how his pants tightened in front, a bulge growing right before my eyes.

He couldn't take it. He unzipped his fly, pulled down his pants along with his boxers. His cock sprang out—hard, thick, the head already glistening with pre-cum. He wrapped his hand around it, started slowly moving up and down, continuing to sniff my panties. With his other hand, he sorted through the rest—taking them, bringing them to his face, sometimes running the fabric over his cock.

His breathing became heavy, ragged. "Nastya…" he whispered almost inaudibly, speeding up his movements. I sat in the closet, my heart pounding, and between my legs grew wet from the sight, from how he was losing control because of me, because of my scent.

He was jerking off faster, his hips trembling, the panties pressed to his face. A little more and he'd cum, right here, in my room…

I sat in the closet, holding my breath, and watched him lose control. His hand moved faster and faster, his cock pulsed, the head glistened, and he pressed my panties to his face so hard, as if he wanted to absorb my scent completely. Between my legs was already soaked—I hadn't expected this to turn me on so much. My fingers instinctively reached down, under my shorts, and I started quietly stroking my clit, feeling the wetness smear over my lips. My breathing quickened, I bit my lip to keep from giving myself away with a moan.

But at some point, my body betrayed me: my foot slipped off the shelf I was leaning on, and I tumbled out of the closet with a crash right onto the bedroom floor. The door swung open, I ended up on all fours, my tank top riding up, exposing my breasts completely, my shorts digging between my buttocks.

Artyom froze. His hand on his cock stopped mid-stroke, my panties still at his face. His eyes widened, his face flushed crimson to his ears. He didn't know where to go: pants down, erection on full display, and me—his roommate—staring right at it all.

A second of silence. Two. I could have screamed, been outraged, kicked him out. But instead, something else flared up inside me—power. He was caught, completely in my power, and that turned me on more than anything. I slowly stood up, not adjusting my tank top—my breasts swayed, nipples hard as stones. I walked closer to him, looking straight into his eyes.

— Well, Artyom, — I said quietly but firmly, — do you like my scent?

He tried to mumble something, stepped back, but tripped over a chair and sat on the bed. His cock was still standing, twitching with excitement. I smiled—predatorily, it seemed to me.

— Be quiet. Now it's my turn.

I walked right up, stood between his legs. With one hand, I grabbed his wrist—the one he was jerking off with—and moved it aside. With my other hand, I took my panties from his fingers and slowly ran them over his lips.

-Open your mouth.

He obediently parted his lips, and I stuffed the fabric into his mouth—not deep, but enough for him to taste and smell it. His eyes rolled back with pleasure.

I pushed him in the chest—he fell onto his back on the bed. I sat on top, straddling his hips, but not touching his cock yet. My breasts were right above his face. I took his hands and pinned them to the mattress above his head.

— Look at me. Only at me.

I started slowly moving my hips, rubbing my wet slit against his stomach through the thin fabric of my shorts. He moaned into the panties, trying to break free, but I held him tight. The years of athletics hadn't been for nothing.

Then I leaned down and whispered in his ear:

— Do you want to touch my breasts?

He nodded desperately.

— Ask.

I pulled the panties out of his mouth.

— Please… Nastya… can I…

— Louder.

— Please, can I touch your breasts!

I smirked, took his hands, and placed them on my breasts. He squeezed them greedily, his fingers digging in, his thumbs twisting my nipples. I moaned without restraint, loudly.

— And now lower, — I ordered, rising slightly and shifting my shorts aside.

I lowered myself right onto his face—wet, hot, ready. He latched on with his tongue immediately, like a starving man—licking greedily, sucking my clit, penetrating inside. I grabbed his hair and started guiding him, setting the rhythm.

— That's it… deeper… yes

I was completely dominant—moving on his face as I wanted, pressing down harder as I approached orgasm. He gasped beneath me but didn't stop—licking, sucking, moaning into my flesh.

When I came—sharply, with a cry, squeezing my thighs around his head—I didn't give him a break. I slid down lower, took his cock in my hand—hard, hot, ready to burst.

-Now it's your turn. But only when I allow it.

I started jerking him off slowly, agonizingly—speeding up, then stopping when he was on the edge. He begged, writhed, but I was in charge. And only when I decided it was enough, I straddled him completely, sinking down his full length in one motion.

We both screamed with pleasure. I rode him hard, fast, my breasts bouncing before his eyes, and he could only hold onto my hips and look up at me from below—completely subdued.

From that night, everything changed. He washed the dishes perfectly. And in the evenings, he waited for my command on his knees, if I was in the mood. I was in charge. And I fucking loved it.