Chapter 143: Teach me, Touch me -1

I was twenty the first time I learned how to m@sturb@te.

Before that, my body felt like something that happened to me rather than something I belonged to.

I had a boyfriend then, gentle, patient, the kind of person who noticed the things I tried to hide. We started as ordinary friends and I never expected more.

Our conversations were soft and ordinary at first: classes, food, the small annoyances of college life.

Then the talks stretched later and later into the night. One evening he simply left his room and came to mine, and somehow it became natural for him to share the narrow bed with me.

I used to hate people lying on my bed. Back then I felt a deep, private shame every morning when I woke to find my bedspread damp, not from urine, but from those strange, sticky dreams I didn’t understand and couldn’t stop.

Every new day felt a little more humiliating than the last. I washed the bedsheets almost every morning, trying to erase the evidence before anyone noticed.

I never spoke about it. I thought something was wrong with me.

He noticed anyway. He didn’t laugh or look away. He told me, very quietly, that it was normal, that my body was simply waking up.

Hearing those words from him felt like someone opening a window in a room I had kept locked for years.

Soon I grew used to the warm weight of him beside me each night. My roommates raised their eyebrows. "Raymond, this guy is always here, Is everything okay?"

I would smile and say he was just a cool friend, that maybe his own roommates were difficult. It was easier than admitting how much I needed the safety of his presence.

I still remember the night everything changed.

He kissed me softly at first, almost carefully, as if he was afraid I might break. Then he held me close, his body curved around mine, and his hand moved between my legs with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

The feeling was strange and electric at the same time, like something I had been waiting for without knowing its name.

When the pleasure finally broke over me, he pressed his palm gently over my mouth so the sound wouldn’t escape. I had never felt so seen.

He kept teaching me after that, slow, patient strokes until my body learned the shape of release.

One night I finally found the courage to ask him, voice small and embarrassed, "Please... teach me how to do it myself."

He smiled the way someone smiles at something precious. "Do as I do," he whispered.

We faced each other, His hand guided mine to his dick while his own moved over mine up and down in a steady, careful rhythm, never too fast, never rough. Gentle, he kept saying.

His mouth found mine again, our hands wandered and when he came warm across the sheets and my skin, he didn’t pull away, instead he kept stroking mine, faster now and steady, until every last tremor left my body.

It was only a few days before our second-semester exams in first year.

During the long break that followed, the house felt too quiet without him. I needed that feeling that I get whenever he touches me and kisses me.

One afternoon I locked the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and closed my eyes. I tried to remember the exact way his fingers had moved, the pressure, the pace, the patience.

My own hand felt clumsy and uncertain at first, I was nervous, almost shy with myself. Minutes passed. Then, suddenly, the same wave rose and broke, softer than when he was there but still real, still mine.

I sat very still afterward with my heart racing, staring at the ceiling, feeling something like wonder.

I told him the next time we spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush of quiet pride mixed with leftover shyness.

Kelvin’s voice on the other end of the line went soft in that particular way of his, the one that always made something warm settle behind my ribs.

"I’m proud of you," he said simply. No teasing, no exaggeration. Just that. Then, after a small pause: "Don’t worry. When we see each other again... we’ll do more than hands. We’ll use our mouths. If you want."

The promise sat with me through the rest of the break, I could not wait.

School resumed on a grey Monday. The campus felt the same and entirely different.

I saw him across the courtyard first - leaning against the railing outside the library with his bag slung over one shoulder, scrolling through his phone.

When he looked up and found me, the corner of his mouth lifted in that quiet, private smile that still made my pulse jump.

We didn’t rush. We walked together to the dorms after the last class, talking about nothing important - professors who already seemed tired, the cafeteria’s questionable soup, the way the new semester always felt both endless and already slipping away.

His shoulder brushed mine once on the stairs. The contact was light, almost accidental, but my skin registered it for several steps afterward.

Inside his room the air was cooler than mine. He locked the door with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than it should have.

We sat on the edge of the bed for a while, shoes still on, the afternoon light thinning through the half-closed blinds.

My heart was already moving too fast. I could feel it in my throat, in the tips of my fingers.

Kelvin turned toward me slowly. His eyes moved over my face the way someone reads a page they already know by heart -lingering, careful.

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead. The touch was so light I almost leaned into it without meaning to.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded. Words felt unnecessary and also impossible.