10:58 PM – Room 2B, lights off

The room is dark.
But not quiet.
Not still.

The fan above me spins, whispering things I don’t want to understand.
The sheet clings to my skin, damp.
My tank top sticky between my boobs.
No bra. No protection.

I thought my first night here would be silent.
Or at least, the kind of noise that makes you feel less alone.

Instead—

Thud.

Again.
Soft.
Rhythmic.

I hold my breath.

At first I think it’s the fan.
Or maybe someone dropped a book.

But then it happens again.
And again.

Not loud.
Not fast.

Just... undeniable.

The sound of a bed frame surrendering.
And the faintest gasp — the kind a girl makes when someone touches her like they already know her map.

Then a voice.

Low. Confident. Male.

  “Don’t move. Just... like that.”

My eyes flick to the ceiling.

Like that helps.

But it doesn’t.
Not when the rhythm keeps going.
Not when the creaking becomes music.
Not when her breathing starts to race.

Short. Quick.
Like she’s chasing something and almost there.

My thighs press together.
I pretend it’s to shift positions.
But I don’t move.

I just... listen.

__________________________________________________

11:11 PM – Still on the bed

The moans are louder now.

His voice, deep.
Hers, sharp. Needy.

The headboard slams — not violently, but with precision.
Like they’ve done this before.
Like their bodies know how to sing in secret.

I roll to my side.
My hand drags across my stomach.
Finds the waistband of my shorts.
Stops.

The air smells like dust and leftover heat.
Like skin. Like breath.

I inhale slow.
Hold it.

Then let it out — shaky.

There’s pressure between my legs.
Heavy.
Wet.

The sound of them pulls me open from the inside.

Creaks.
Gasp.
Groan.
Slap.
Creak.

It’s not porn.
It’s worse.

It’s real.

Bona... don’t judge me. Okay?

I told myself I wouldn’t be that girl.
The one who gets off to strangers through a wall.

But I’m already soaked.
And I haven’t even touched myself yet.

My hand moves lower.

Fingertips slip under the waistband.
Past the elastic.
Skin to skin.

I brush.
And gasp.

God.
I’m soaked.

I press gently.
Not too much.
Just enough to make my hips twitch.

The girl next door cries out again — high, broken.

The wall shudders.

I press harder.

My breath catches.
Back arches.

One finger circles.
Slow.
Testing.
Teasing.

Another dips lower.
Inside.

Not enough.

But somehow… everything.

_____________________________________________________

11:24 PM – On the edge

I don’t know who I’m thinking of.

Maybe no one.
Maybe them.
Maybe—

A girl’s shoulder.
The slope of a tank top.
That's Chinese Girl voice, just this morning.

I press deeper.

My thighs tremble.
One hand under the sheet, the other gripping the pillow like a confession.

Two fingers now.

One rubbing soft circles.
One sliding in and out — slow, greedy.

I bite my lip.
Hard.

But I can’t stay still.

My hips lift.
Grinding against my own hand like I owe myself something.

The headboard slams.

The girl screams — words I can’t understand.
But my body does.

It understands everything.

The wave builds.
Tight.
Low.
Curling up from deep inside like something alive.

Faster.

Rubbing.
Pushing.

Until—

My stomach locks.
My thighs snap closed.
My spine lifts.

And I fall.

Hard.

Soundless.

The orgasm rips through me like it’s been waiting all week to be let out.

I shake.
I gasp.
I crumple.

____________________________________________________

11:32 PM – Still. Too Still.

My hand is wet.

My shorts are halfway down my thighs.
I haven’t fixed them.

My legs still parted, twitching once — like an aftershock.

The room is quiet again.

The fan above me hums like it’s innocent.
Like it didn’t witness everything.

But it did.

So did the wall.

The bed.

Me.

Just me.

Bona…

They were together.
I was alone.

They touched each other.
I touched myself.

So why do I feel like I gave up more?

Why does it feel like my body remembers something I never actually had?

And why do I want it again...

even before I’ve wiped my hand?

___________________________________________

I shift.

The sheet sticks to the inside of my thigh.
I leave it there.

I stare at the ceiling, but all I see are flashes of my own eyelids—
how they fluttered when I came.

Was it wrong?

Was it real?

Or did I just turn someone else’s noise into something to hold
because I had nothing else to hold?

I don’t move.

I don’t pull my shorts up.

I just lie there.

Letting the quiet settle over me like guilt.

Like heat that doesn’t burn,
but never leaves.

To be continued...

I touched myself because they reminded me how it feels to be touched.

But when the sound faded, all that stayed was my skin.

Chapter 3: The morning after you come without being kissed.

→ Keep reading.