Reasonable Adjustments

I don't see a door here.

Originally featured in Sunshine Erotica Vol. 5

I sit on the edge of my bed, looking down at my feet. Then up at my ceiling. My arms are folded across my chest.

There’s a guy in my shower. I can hear the shape of him interrupting the water before it splashes onto the acrylic tray, the rattle turning into a gurgle as the drainage does its best to keep up.

No, get your mind out of the gutter. He’s here because he’s run across town to get to a 9am lecture, and my room with its en-suite shower and 5-minute walk to campus just across the quad got volunteered by our mutual friends as the place for him to freshen up.

I didn’t bother protesting. Annoying as it would be to have someone in my space, it does make sense, and I do feel sorry for him. And for those poor souls who would have to sit next to him.

But I refuse to leave my room just because he’s using the shower. Call it my quiet rebellion, my line in the sand. I don’t often speak my mind, usually because I can out-argue myself and don’t want to waste my time with other people’s inefficiency, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to just roll over and play nice.

I wonder how he really felt when he realised that there was no door between the shower and the room. I’d asked for it to be removed, so that I would have more space to work with. One less thing for me to bump into, and the maintenance team had acquiesced.

He was his usual chirpy self when I met him downstairs earlier, talking about his run and his day ahead and how shit it is that his course has 9am lectures all year. I’d just shrugged noncommittally as I led him to my room. Not my problem. My course has a much more reasonable lecture schedule.

“No door?” he’d asked when we got to my room and I’d pointed him to the shower. “Nope,” I reply. “Reasonable adjustment. Don’t worry, I won’t see anything. Not much point.”

“Oh, harsh.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“You know what I mean.”

He does, too. It’s no secret that I’m legally blind. I can see shapes and colours, and if I squint really, really hard at something right in front of my face I can even make out some finer details, but no amount of optometry will ever get me seeing any more than that. I won’t bore you with the science and the law. Plus, the squinting gives me a killer headache and makes me look like a mole, according to my loving mother, so I don’t do that too often.

He’d laughed, not unkindly, and then got on with it, promising to be out of my way as quickly as he could. He’d given me a pastry - a croissant - that he’d picked up along the way. I love croissants. It sits on my desk, uneaten.

I hear the shower turning off. Then a soft, “Ah.”

I sigh. “You can use the towel by the sink,” I call out. “I’ll wash it later.”

He apologises, thanks me, and picks the towel up. I hear the flick of the fabric as he shakes it out, then the sound of fluffy fibres on skin.

Just to mess with him, I turn towards the bathroom, sitting cross-legged on my bed and hugging Mr. Squishy to my chest. I can see him – the blobby shape that I know is him – moving around. Colours shift: he’s getting dressed. Then he turns around.

“Fuck!”

I laugh, burying my face in Mr. Squishy.

“You said you weren’t going to look!” he says accusingly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“I said I wasn’t going to see anything. I looked, but I can’t see anything. You’d better go; you’re going to be late.”

He groans theatrically, but leaves. As the door shuts behind him, I go into the bathroom. He’s left it neat, even folded the towel up. I pick it up and hold it to my nose. Is that what he smells like? Hard to tell, with the bodywash and shampoo fragrances. Right now, it smells more like me than him. Even if there is an undercurrent of something unfamiliar.

Then I shake my head. What am I doing? I unfold it and drop it into my laundry basket.

Then I go to my desk and eat the croissant. It’s flaky and buttery: perfect.

---

He’s here again.

It’s been a week, and it’s the fifth time he’s here using my shower. If I’m not careful, people are going to talk. Not that I particularly care. Or mind.

Today he’s brought me a maple pecan twist. It sits on my desk, uneaten. It was warm when he gave it to me earlier. I sit on my bed, facing the bathroom.

“Are you always going to be watching me while I do this?” he asks while he undresses. There is some rustling as he shoves his running clothes into his bag.

“Yes,” I reply. He laughs.

“I know you can’t see anything, but it still feels a bit weird.”

“Imagine how it feels for me to have you using my shower.”

“Fair enough,” he says, behind the rubbery squeak of the shower cubicle’s door, and the creak of the tray as he steps on it. Then a metallic whine, followed by a full-throated, watery hiss.

“Missed a spot,” I call out as he’s halfway through.

“Wha- how?” he splutters before he realises I’m joking and laughs. “You’re very different from when we’re with the others,” he says.

“In what way?” I ask cautiously.

“Well, you talk more. You’re not so shy.”

It feels strange, talking to a guy, knowing he’s completely naked and washing himself. It’s hard to pretend he’s not, not when I can hear water splashing and skin sliding on skin as he rubs himself down. He’s very thorough.

I try to picture what he might look like, but I can’t really. Dark hair. Kind voice, with a permanent hint of detached amusement in it.

“Just because I don’t talk much doesn’t mean I’m shy. In the same way that you’re not friendly just because you talk a lot.”

The metallic whine again, and the hissing stops, to be replaced by dripping. I hear a low chuckle.

“Going right for the jugular, huh?” I don’t answer. “Well played.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, and there’s even a sort of admiration in his voice. He dries himself vigorously. In the silence between us I can hear something…meaty flapping about. Is that...

I don’t get a chance to find out. Not today, anyway. He dresses, thanks me, and wishes me a cheery goodbye as he shuts the door quietly behind him. He’s started bringing his own towel, so there isn’t anything for me to do other than eat the maple pecan twist.

It is delicious, if a touch too sweet. I wipe the crumbs from my mouth as I chew slowly.

---

“Uh! Uh! Fuck! Harder! Yeah, like that!” Smack.

I open the door blearily to him. He presses the day’s offering into my hands. The greasy paper crinkles as I try to feel out its shape with my thumbs. “Almond croissant,” he says, as I take a sniff.

“Ah.”

I step aside to let him in. I can smell the warm sweat on him, the late autumn sunshine and dry leaves, and it hasn’t yet had a chance to start to get funky. A shiver runs up my back. He takes his shoes off at the door, as he always does.

“Is that...” he asks.

“My neighbour fucking her new boyfriend incredibly loudly? Mm. Yes.”

I shut the door and shuffle towards my bed, reaching for Mr Squishy and holding him close.

We listen in companionable silence. I unwrap the croissant and take a bite. The paper sounds like a thunderstorm, the lightning pastry crackling under my teeth. I chew, then swallow, turning the package around in my hands. It’s densely filled with the creamy-nutty-salty-sweet paste, and has a good bite to it under the flakiness.

My neighbour’s headboard thumps against our shared wall.

“Good rhythm,” he remarks.

“You listen to it all night; then tell me if you still feel the same way.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

A low whistle. “Impressive.”

“Life doesn’t have to be a marathon.”

He peels off his shirt as we talk. I try not to squint, just keep my face blank as I watch him undress. He laughs as he notices me watching him, and walks into the shower.

Moan. Thump. Moan. Thump. Moan. Thump. Moan.

She cries out. He cries out.

Thank God.

They’ll be quiet now for maybe another couple of hours before they get going again. I keel over on my bed and curl up around Mr Squishy. The pastry slips from my fingers.

The next time I open my eyes, I’m alone. My room is dark, and someone has pulled my duvet over me. There is a faint memory of gentle lips on my forehead. Surely that bit is just my imagination, but when I touch the spot lightly with my fingertips, it almost feels warm.

My stomach growls. I crawl out of bed and land on the floor with a thump. I pick myself up, then feel for the rest of the almond croissant. He’s put it on my desk for me.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Moan.

Maybe he’ll let me sleep at his tonight.

---

He tells me about his run today, about how he nearly got run over by an idiot cyclist who’d taken a corner too quickly. About the sun rising as he was leaving his hall. The branches half-bare; the crisp autumn air, the breeze sweeping leaves down the Mall.

He does this often. Tells me about little things he sees on his run, the routes he takes, the little discoveries he makes.

He tries to take a different route each time, hunting out the best pastry places on his way here. Pain au chocolat today. There is a hint of bitterness to the dark chocolate filling.

He tells me of the quiet beauty of the suburbs just waking up, giving way to the noise and the hustle the closer he gets to the centre.

We’ve been in the city for the same amount of time, but he’s seen so much more of it than I have. Not just literally. The love he feels for the place is evident in his voice.

A pang of jealousy stabs me through the heart. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’d say they make my vision blurry, but my vision’s always blurry, tears or not.

I wish I could see the city the way he does. Not the way I have always had to. As a source of danger. A hostile environment, full of uneven paving slabs and people who get too close despite my stick and potholes and vicious cyclists who ignore traffic rules.

Well, I suppose we have that last bit in common.

I wish I could see through his eyes.

I wish I could see.

I wish...I wish...

I grab the pastry and tear into it while he showers. Using it to push down impotent wishes and feelings. Crunchy. Sweet. Flaky. Buttery. Angry chocolate that grips my throat and refuses to let me swallow.

Then I wipe the crumbs from around my lips and run my tongue over my teeth. I pull my t-shirt over my head and tug my knickers down, tossing both onto the bed, then step into the bathroom. I strike what I hope is a seductive pose, with one hand on my hip. I don’t know, I’ve never had a chance to see what I look like when standing that way. It feels right.

“What- ?” he asks when he realises I’m standing there.

“You missed a spot.”

Silence. I imagine he’s staring at me, trying to decide if I’m joking again or not. The water cascades over him. And then,

“Help me get it?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

A rubbery squeak. Then another, after I get into the shower with him. It’s tiny, barely enough for one, let alone two of us. I reach for him, touch his face, run my fingers along his jawline, feel the slight stubble on his cheeks. Nearly stick my fingers up his nostrils as I try to feel what he looks like.

He stands still, trembling. I can hear his uncertainty in his breathing, the way his breath catches in his throat. I know, because I’m breathing the same way. I can hear my heart.

I feel my way down to his shoulders, reach for his hands. I take them, and place them just above my breasts. “You can touch, too.” I whisper, barely audibly over the hiss of the shower. Water pools around our feet, and I nudge his foot aside with mine. He’s blocking the drain.

He touches me gently. So gently. His fingertips feel like butterfly wings as they brush over my skin, over my nipples that are hard and tingle at his touch. I reciprocate, by running my fingers over every bit of his skin that I can reach. His nipples are hard, too. His belly moves rhythmically as I rest my hand on it.

I wonder if he can tell the difference between my fingers and the warm shower water that cascades over us. I wonder how differently we experience the world. He needs to moisturise better. He has hard cuticles.

I feel something else hard prodding me.

“Is that...”

“Yep. Sorry.” I sense him angling his hips away, though his hands remain on me.

“May I?” I ask.

He laughs, and it’s his turn to reach for my hand.

Rather than place it on his cock, he lifts it to his mouth and kisses the back of it, like some old-time courtier. His lips feel soft on my knuckles, and I shiver despite the steam surrounding us. It’s corny. It’s cheesy. It’s various forms of food-related cringe.

Despite that, I feel a jolt run me through, and when he lets my hand go, I use his body to guide me. Down his sternum, past his navel, to his cock, which I grip once I get there. It’s thick and warm in my hand. I can feel his pulse through it, a gentle throbbing in the thick veins.

I lean forward and try to kiss him, but end up planting my lips on his chin, scraping my lips against his stubble. He adjusts without missing a beat, and we’re kissing.

I never imagined my first kiss would be like this: naked, squeezed into my tiny shower, my hand around his cock and his hand on my butt. I close my eyes and see flashes of red on black, the one time I know I see the same thing as him.

Our tongues meet, our teeth clash. I open my eyes again and squint so I can see him better. He laughs and kisses my forehead. He rests his hand gently on the back of my head, and I shiver despite the hot water.

A warm spot marking my forehead. I knew it wasn’t my imagination.

I want to climb him, but I fear what would happen if either of us slip. As if he’s reading my mind, he moves and the shower stops. Water drips from both of us. The drain gurgles.

“I don’t have to go,” he says. “Actually, my classes only start after lunch today. I just wanted to see you.”

“Good,” I reply. “You cheeky sod.”

I’ll let him off. I wanted to see him too. Well. Squint at him.

And then we’re both in my bed, skin and hair still somewhat damp from the shower. I’m in his arms; he’s in mine. Our lips are pressed together, and my breath is coming in quick pants. Mr Squishy is safely on my desk, politely turned towards the wall.

I don’t know what’s come over me, but I know one thing for certain: I need this man inside me. Now. I roll us over so I’m beneath him. He’s close enough that I can just about see his eyes. If I squint. I squint. His deep brown eyes. I caress his cheek.

“I want you inside.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Are you?”

He nods. Then, “Yes,” he says. The kind of man who even in the heat of the moment thinks to answer in words in case I can’t see him nodding. I can feel him, but the point is that he tries. The tension leaves him as he slumps. “I haven’t got a condom,” he says.

“I do. Bedside drawer.” I point. He opens it and pulls out the unopened box of three.

I’m an optimist.

I sit up so I can put my arms around him while his nails scrape ineffectively against the smooth plastic shrink-wrapping the box. “Here, give it,” I say, holding my hand out to him. He places it in my hand, and I use my teeth. A corner of the cardboard bends under my assault. I spit the ripped plastic into a tissue while he pulls one of the shiny foil squares out, which he has more success opening.

I lie back. His hard cock presses against my belly, and I shift myself a little higher. He reaches between us, and I spread my legs for him. He tries to guide himself into me, and I hold still, unsure if moving would help. Instead, I wrap an arm around his neck and try to kiss him again. This time, I push my face into his throat, and inhale as if I’d meant to do that. He smells good.

“Sorry,” he says. “Not done this before.”

“Same,” I reply.

It takes a couple of readjustments on his part, but soon enough I feel the head of his cock pushing against my entrance. Some ancient instinct takes over, and I raise my hips for him, the motion causing him to slide into me.

I gasp, a hiss of breath between my teeth. “Shit, sorry!” he says.

“Shh, don’t be.” I wrap my arms around him. I’m wet enough, ready enough that I’d barely felt him enter me. But I can certainly feel him now. I don’t think he’s all the way in. I’m not sure if it’s his pulse or mine that I feel throbbing between my legs. “Just...give me a moment.”

We lie together quietly, our breathing loud in the still of the morning. I’m not sure if I’m breathing or sobbing. Maybe a bit of both. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him supporting his own weight on his arms to avoid crushing me. I want to be crushed by him.

“I’m ready,” I tell him, and he starts moving again, until he is entirely in me. I wrap my legs around him now.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter that my world looks like splodges of colour by a drunk artist. Suddenly everything feels like it’s meant to be.

I bury my face back in that hollow between his neck and his shoulder and inhale deeply the mix of his scent and my bodywash. He warns me that he’s not going to last long. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Do it.”

We move together. It’s hard at first, and he nearly slips out once or twice, but our bodies soon find the right rhythm. Before too long, he grunts and I feel him pulsing as he releases into the condom.

I imagine I can feel it bulging inside me. I stroke his hair, murmur into his ear how good it feels as he finishes. He turns to kiss my cheek. It’s his turn to smell me. The sounds he makes, the barely held back grunts and groans go straight through to my core.

I don’t cum, not that first time, but that’s okay. We’ll have plenty more opportunities. I’ll make sure of that. There’s a whole year’s worth of early lectures still in his future, after all.