Chapter Text
Fan on, windows open, and lights on. This was the room of the young and extremely studious Sandrone, who had a habit of studying and working on her research while the rest of the world slept.
It was past midnight, and she was already rubbing her eyes from sleep, but nothing more than a mug of coffee followed by a can of energy drink and plenty of ice-cold water kept her awake. That was her weekly routine, with Sandrone only allowing herself to break this unhealthy cycle on the weekends. However, lately, she'd been feeling tired more often. As someone who sleeps during the day to study at night, there was one very specific detail that had been disrupting her sleep and studies recently.
In that kind of republic where several young academics lived, her room was the last one on the corridor and was located on the top floor, right in front of hers, was the room of her biggest headache at the moment: Columbina.
An unusual name for an even more unusual person, who had a terrible habit of singing at random times of the day, and even worse, whenever Sandrone was trying to sleep or study. At first, she found it curious and even admired the lyrical melody that filled her ears in the mornings. Columbina truly had a beautiful voice, but when Sandrone became irritated at being unable to concentrate on her research, the situation changed completely.
The melody that once sounded like a celestial awakening slowly began to take on the contours of a very subtle harassment. Sandrone, whose world revolved around mechanical precision and the silence necessary to decipher complex schemes, saw her patience fray like a wire under tension.
It was always at the crucial moment, when her razor-sharp mind was about to fit the pieces of a reverse-engineering problem together. Her brain was working at full speed, her fingers stained with ink from her pens, always tracing frantic calculations on the paper, and then… That damned voice starts to rise.
It wasn't a distracted singing. It was a complete performance, a lyrical aura that spilled through the hallways of the house, passed through the solid wood door of her bedroom, and infiltrated her consciousness with the delicacy of a wedge. Columbina. The name, ethereal and musical, was a cruel irony. Her songs had no time or context; they simply blossomed spontaneously, like poisonous flowers in a well-tended garden.
At first, Sandrone tried to be at least a little polite. Columbina, dear. Would you mind stopping that infernal singing while I'm trying to sleep or study? Thank you. The response was a suggestive smile and a new, even more elaborate verse, as if the plea were a request for an encore.
The young woman had a rather acidic temperament, was easily angered, and was very proud, which was actually quite funny because her classmate was the complete opposite. Columbina was kind, calm, patient, and never raised her voice, while Sandrone screamed to the four corners of the world that Columbina's singing was ruining her concentration.
Sandrone's irritation then turned into an evasion strategy. Sandrone changed her study schedule to the early morning hours, when her fellow singer, she assumed, would be sound asleep. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. At three in the morning, just as she was isolating the fault in a clockwork mechanism, a soft nocturnal ballad echoed from the next room, as clear and vivid as if Columbina were beside her, whispering in her ear.
And this repeated itself every night, every day, every dawn. At that point, Sandrone was certain it was intentional, because every time they met, it was always the same way, with basically the same repertoire.
Sandrone was raging to her colleague that she was exhausted, tired, and sleepy, and that it was entirely her fault that she couldn't sleep with that damned singing. She also complained that her research was stagnant and stuck in the same place because she couldn't concentrate, and that this was also Columbina's fault. Always the same complaints, always met with the same answers. Good morning, Sandrone, you shouldn't waste day for night like that, especially considering the amount of coffee and energy drinks you drink, Columbina said, with the utmost calm and serenity in the world.
I'm just worried about you, she added. Always with that calm that drove Sandrone crazy. Worse still, always with that gentle smile that seems to hide something more perverse and treacherous.
However, that night, everything seemed very quiet.
Too quiet, even.
Sandrone had started studying around six in the evening when she locked herself in her room. She took a break at seven-thirty to take a cold shower, and around eight-twenty, she ate a quick dinner and returned to her studies. It was a summer night where fatigue, drowsiness, and the inability to sleep due to the heat worked together in unison. Her fan, set to maximum power, seemed to be insufficient, and even though she felt a little drowsy, she knew she wouldn't be able to lie down in bed and sleep because the heat wasn't like her best friend at all.
And in the midst of it all, while concentrating on her studies and trying to beat the heat with copious amounts of water, Sandrone began to feel a curious discomfort. She couldn't hear Columbina's voice coming through the walls of her room and disrupting her concentration, which, in a way, left her a little pensive in the seconds her thoughts wandered.
Hmm... She's too quiet this time, Sandrone thought as she stared at the bedroom door. She glanced suddenly at the clock on her desk; it was already past midnight, and Sandrone hadn't heard Columbina sing even once. Thinking back, Sandrone hadn't actually heard her colleague's voice since she started studying. It was no wonder she was able to continue her research this time and even make some progress.
Sandrone yawned and then stretched in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and all the heat was giving a headache. Columbina's silence was curious, but at the same time, it wasn't her business. She might simply not be in the dormitory, maybe she'd left or something, whatever. What really mattered was that she was finally quiet, and Sandrone had managed to make progress in her studies.
For that same reason, she decided to indulge in some vanilla lemon ice cream she'd bought earlier. Something cold at that hour would certainly energize her to continue studying. She just hoped Columbina would maintain this silence during the day as well, so Sandrone could sleep peacefully and catch up on some good hours of sleep.
"I need to buy an air conditioner," Sandrone thought as she got up from her chair and turned off the fan. She looked dismayed and disgusted when she realized there was no air even with the window open, not even a breeze. That summer was truly unbearable for those who spent too many hours indoors. When Sandrone opened her bedroom door, she felt an unusual chill when she realized the door to the next room, where Columbina slept, was open a crack, and a faint light could be seen coming from inside.
No, she hadn't left. Columbina was definitely in that room.
They weren't best friends, but they were close enough for Sandrone to know that Columbina didn't leave her bedroom door open, not even when she went to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator. They both had lived in that shared republic with other roommates since they met, and this was the first time Sandrone had seen her bedroom door like that. Despite being a kind and polite person, Columbina had a very personal dilemma regarding where she slept: it was her space, with her things and her privacy; if she wanted someone to see what her room looked like, then she would invite them in.
And she never invited anyone.
The young woman would be lying if she said she wasn't tempted to peek through the crack in the door... Just to check, after all, it was something quite unusual. Certainly, whatever was going on in that room was none of her business, but it wouldn't kill anyone if she just peeked in and checked that everything was okay.
Curiosity is a dangerous thing, you know, her subconscious warned, but she had already left her room and headed for the door. Sandrone stopped in front of the crack, the still air of the hallway suddenly feeling cold against her skin. The dim light emanating from Columbina's room wasn't the warm glow of a ceiling lamp, but a soft, yellowish luminescence, similar to a nightlight children use because they're afraid of the dark. The silence in the dormitory was absolute, a vacuum of sound that seemed to suck even the noise of her own thoughts.
A sickly curiosity, far stronger than her respect for her colleague's privacy, took root within her. The unbearable summer, the sweat on the back of her neck, the thirst in her mouth, and the sudden hunger, all forgotten, replaced by a primal urge to peek. She leaned forward, moving with a slowness that made every tiny noise — the creak of the floorboards, the friction of her clothes — an explosion of sound in the silence.
Her right eye aligned with the crack.
The room was exactly as she'd imagined, given her colleague's profile. There was none of the cozy clutter of a young girl, and in fact, it appeared quite organized. The space was as silent as if it were completely empty. She squinted and tried to see around until she finally spotted Columbina inside the room. And it was at that moment that her heartbeat became irregular.
Wearing some kind of a short and white nightgown of seemingly thin fabric, Columbina lay on the bed, completely uncovered, her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress and her dark, pink-streaked hair strewn across the bed. The dim light from the lamp made her skin gleam and revealed a dampness; she was slightly sweaty and appeared to be sleeping uncomfortably.
Sandrone held her breath, her stomach knotting. She bit her lower lip without even realizing it, and her mouth opened slowly. This wasn't a dream, not an illusion of the heat, but rather a manifestation of something in her entire body that made her feel hotter than before. She could clearly see the outline of her breasts in the neckline of her nightgown; one of the straps had fallen down her arm, and her nipples bulged against the fabric. The bed wasn't that far from the door, and the crack, though small, was enough for Sandrone to have a perfect view of Columbina lying in that position.
The outside world — the oppressive summer, the need to cool off on a hot and lazy night, the day's despondency — dissolved like smoke. All that existed for Sandrone was that crack, that lamplit room, and Columbina in her "damp" sleep.
A wave of heat, the complete opposite of the initial chill, coursed through her body, concentrating in a low, intense spot in her belly. It was a thick, heavy sensation that made her hands tingle and her mouth dry. She continued to bite her lower lip, oblivious to the pressure of her teeth, mesmerized by the sight.
Columbina stirred. It was an unconscious adjustment in her sleep, a roll of her hips that caused her short nightgown to rise even higher, revealing the soft curve of her buttocks and the suggestive shadow between her thighs. A low moan, muffled by the pillow, escaped from her lips. It was a sound of thermal discomfort, yes, but also of something deeper, something that made Sandrone press her thighs together in involuntary response.
Her heart was now beating rapidly and hoarsely, a tribal sound echoing in the silence of the hallway. She felt a dampness unlike sweat form on her own skin, a humiliating and delicious response to the forbidden voyeurism that trickled down her forehead and around her face. What am I doing, a fragment of reason whispered in the back of her mind, but it was immediately drowned out by the raw, insane desire that flooded her. She was invading Columbina's privacy without her consent, driven only by initial curiosity, and now, caught in the delight of that alluring image, unable to move.
And it was intoxicating.
Her eyes roamed over her colleague's body as if they were extremely hungry. The strap hanging down her arm, the soft rise of her nipples beneath the thin fabric, the dampness of sweat that clung to the skin of her abdomen... Sandrone imagined what it would be like to touch. To feel that heat, the salt of sweat, the texture of that skin beneath her fingertips.
Suddenly, Columbina sighed deeply and her eyes fluttered open.
It wasn't an abrupt awakening. It was slow, heavy, as if she were emerging from the depths of a dream. Her gaze, glazed with sleep, wandered to the ceiling and then, slowly, drifted toward the door.
The shock of that moment was so violent that it immediately jolted Sandrone out of her paralysis. She took a step back, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, a drum of panic. Without thinking, she ran toward the kitchen, which was where she should have gone instead of stopping in front of Columbina's room. Along the way, the only thing Sandrone could think was: What have I done?
Did Columbina even see her through the crack? Perhaps not. Sandrone regained consciousness the moment her colleague opened her eyes. She clearly remembers leaving before Columbina's face turned fully toward the door.
Now in the empty kitchen, in a completely different atmosphere, she leaned her hands on the table and tried to regain her common sense, her breathing, and her lost sanity. Even though she was the proudest person anyone close to her knew, Sandrone still couldn't deny what she felt seeing her colleague lying on the bed and how much she enjoyed it.
Columbina was a beautiful girl, turning heads wherever she went, and while she wasn't the type to walk around campus with an entourage, she had a fairly well-rounded social circle. Unlike Sandrone, who preferred to limit herself to her oldest friends, who were few in number but trusted her completely — something difficult to earn from her — and formed a pleasant group of people whom Sandrone tolerated and enjoyed the company of from time to time.
She opened the freezer and grabbed her tubs of ice cream, suddenly feeling hungry. Lemon and vanilla were her favorites; the bitterness and sweetness created a perfect balance of flavors. Sandrone didn't even bother grabbing a bowl, just a spoon, and began eating like that. She was nervous, her brilliant mind racing, and she was certain that if it were up to her daunting knowledge, she would be able to study until dawn without a break.
Sandrone thought about that scene as if she was under hypnosis. Columbina was simply lying in bed, and yet she managed to curse the sight of her roommate. The short nightgown, the thin fabric, her hair spread out on the bed, her exposed curves, the cleavage on her breasts, the light dampness of sweat glistening on her skin, the strap falling from her shoulder, the low moan… There were too many details, and they all pierced her mind like blades. She closed her eyes suddenly, remembering it all in order again and how her own body had felt responding to it. For some reason, the danger of almost being caught in the act made Sandrone strangely excited.
The adrenaline rush of that moment truly couldn't be ignored. It was no secret that Sandrone was involved with women, not as much as she would have liked, but when she felt the urge to engage in sexual activity, she'd surrender to the flirtations of some random girl at her college. She wasn't surprised by her reaction to seeing Columbina like that, but rather by how immediate it was. Just one glance in the direction of the bed, and Sandrone felt as if she were before a divinity to be worshipped on her knees.
"Someone else could have seen her, she's completely lost her mind." Sandrone thought disapprovingly as she devoured her ice cream. After all, the door wasn't closed, but an open crack, and they weren't the only ones in the dorm.
Suddenly, an intriguing thought entered hermind. Columbina was asleep, that much was obvious, but why was the door like that?
Something was definitely wrong.
Sandrone knew her roommate well enough to know that her bedroom door was never left open, not even a crack, especially if she wasn't awake. She wouldn't leave it open that wide if she was unconscious, her subconscious asserted, and that made perfect sense. If Columbina wouldn't leave the door open even by accident, when she needed to leave quickly or something like that, let alone if she was sleeping and risked someone seeing her like that. Especially if she risked someone entering her room.
That seemed very, very intentional. And now, Sandrone's mind was spinning her wheels, trying hard not to conjure up the possibility that her roommate was up to something.
She took a deep breath and closed the ice cream tubs, then put them back in the freezer. That was enough ice cream for her today. Since she wouldn't be leaving her room for the rest of the night, Sandrone took a bottle of ice water from the fridge, which was completely sealed, with her. She'd need something to wet her throat after consuming so much candy. There was just one problem.
Before reaching her room, she would pass the one next door again. Sandrone wondered, halfway there, if Columbina had closed the door after waking up or if it was still open a crack. She had definitely closed it, Sandrone thought. No one in that dormitory slept with the doors open, only with the windows wide open, something that was limited to the students living on the top floor, like Sandrone and Columbina.
Such was her surprise when she turned the corner into the hallway, where there were only two rooms, and found that half-open door. She nearly dropped her water bottle on the floor; her legs froze and her mouth went dry, not because the door was still open, but because of the sound Sandrone heard coming from inside that room. Columbina wasn't singing, but her voice was lyrical as if it were; there weren't lyrics escaping her lips, but rather a vulgar and obscene melody that was still music to the ears. And amidst that erotic lyricism, Columbina repeated that word as if it were a mantra.
“Sandrone…”
Again, curiosity can be a dangerous thing. And knowing this, Sandrone walked cautiously, trying her best not to make a sound, but her heartbeat was so irregular it betrayed her. She approached the door again, as if afraid of what she would find there, sweat dripping down her forehead, until she realized it wasn't fear, but anxiety. Sandrone peered through the crack again and came across an image that would alter the way her brain worked forever.
With her nightgown completely loose, the straps off her arms, and only her belly covered, Columbina touched herself as if completely lost in the pleasure of the act. She cupped one breast with one hand, and with the other, she masturbated her aching clit, eager for something even more intimate. Her hardened nipples were now visible between her fingers, and she seemed to have a masterful skill in stimulating them.
The world shrank into a narrow and forbidden space. The sound that filled Sandrone's ears was no longer the creaking of the floorboards or her own breathing, but the deafening hum of her own blood coursing through her veins, hot and heavy. Each irregular beat of her heart was a hammer blow to her chest, echoing in the oppressive silence of the hallway. The anxiety, now named, transformed into something physical, a thick, warm liquid that coursed through her body and pooled in her belly, a throbbing, moist spot that shamed and excited her in equal measure. She could no longer move; she was rooted there, a statue of flesh and desire, her eyes glued to the crack.
Columbina was a spectacle of pure, raw, and mesmerizing semi-nude beauty. Her fingers weren't hurried or clumsy; they were meticulous, knowing every inch of her body. The hand on her breast squeezed and caressed with calculated pressure, her fingers twisting the erect nipple until it glowed a brighter color, a small anchor of pleasure. The other hand, immersed between her legs, moved with a hypnotic rhythm. Sandrone could see the muscle in Columbina's thigh trembling, the curvature of her arch as she pressed herself against her fingers. It was a feast for the eyes.
A sound escaped Columbina's lips. It wasn't a loud moan, but a hoarse, broken sigh, an unintelligible word that was the very essence of pleasure.
"More… Give me more…" she moaned. Her voice was melodic, like that of a lyrical singer.
The sound hit Sandrone like a physical shock. She felt her own legs tremble and a warm wetness trickle down her thighs, staining her underwear. Her arm, of its own volition, moved. Her own hand slid under her shorts, and her trembling fingers found her own clit, swollen and sensitive. Sandrone slid down the doorway until she was on her knees on the floor. She knew her legs wouldn't hold her up for long, but her eyes remained glued to what her colleague was doing.
It was a reflex action, an involuntary response to the overwhelming stimulus. She masturbated there, in the dark hallway, mirroring the movements of the woman who had accidentally become the object of her forbidden observation. If that scene were seen by any of her classmates, Sandrone would be the main topic of the entire campus for the rest of the year and, in the worst-case scenario, for the rest of her academic life.
She was known for having a difficult temper, despite her youth. She was quite grumpy about some things and cut straight to the chase in her conversations. She had little patience for those who didn't follow her train of thought. Most people wouldn't even try to get close because she wouldn't let them. Her disapproving and repulsive looks spoke louder than an entire monologue, but everything about Sandrone that made other students wary of her presence seemed to have no effect on Columbina.
Imagine if someone discovered that the most intelligent and proud student among the students was on her knees in the dorm hallway watching her classmate masturbate. It was insane.
She's so beautiful, Sandrone thought as her fingers continued to move inside her panties. The heat had grown too intense, and she wanted to take off all the clothes she was wearing. She couldn't tell what was more perverse about this situation. If it was her, masturbating on her knees as if begging for pleasure, or if it was Columbina, in that state on the bed, making a point of keeping her door half-open.
Suddenly, morality became a distant concept, an echo muffled by the pounding blood in her ears. Sandrone gave in to the weight pulling her down, her knees already on the cold hallway floor, and she sat on the back of her legs. The rough wood was a brutal contrast to the feverish skin of her thighs.
You're perfect, the thought was a mantra, a refuge, and a condemnation. Her hand, now freed from the barrier of fabric, moved with desperate urgency inside her panties. Every image burned into her mind — the fallen strap, the shadow between her legs, the writhing of hips — was fuel. The heat was no longer summer heat; it was internal, a fire she herself fed, a fire mirrored in the next room.
The perversion of the scene was a double noose, tightening around her neck with agonizing voluptuousness. On one side, herself, reduced to a creature on her knees, grinding against the floor like an animal in heat, stealing pleasure from a vision that was not meant to be hers. On the other, Columbina. Always Columbina. The half-open door was no oversight. It was an invitation, a bait, a weapon. It was proof that Columbina was not an unwitting victim, but an active participant, a conductor orchestrating Sandrone's symphony of degradation.
A muffled moan escaped Sandrone's lips. She bit her arm to silence it, knowing her every sound was a note in this perverse music. The shame was real, sharp as glass, but the pleasure was a stronger tide, washing over her, numbing everything except the blind need to climax.
Damn, damn, damn! she repeated internally, cursing herself for making a noise and praying that her living and half-naked painting hadn't noticed. Despite her shame and fear of discovery, Sandrone simply couldn't stop what she was doing. From inside the room, a sound answered her muffled moan.
It wasn't a moan of solitary pleasure, but a deliberate, theatrical sigh, followed by a clear, intentional whisper that cut through the heavy air:
"I'm close..."
Those two words were a whiplash. A command. A confession.
Sandrone finally understood the orchestration of that entire moment. Columbina knew. She knew she was being watched. She knew Sandrone was there on her knees, masturbating. And she was masturbating for her colleague. The open door was the stage, and Sandrone was the audience Columbina had so desired.
Of course, this couldn't be a mere coincidence. Everything made more sense now, and Sandrone didn't know whether to run to her room or stay there and wait to see what would happen.
That door was never left open in the room next door.
Too lost in pleasure to realize she'd bitten a dangerous bait, Sandrone now watched with wide and anxious eyes as Columbina increased the speed of her finger movements. Her hips moved in sync, her feet messed with the bedsheets, and her bare chest rose and fell. She writhed, her melodic voice bewitching the ears of the observer.
Watching that moment was even more insane because they both were meters away from each other. Sandrone was right there, a very short distance from Columbina, watching without missing a single detail, her colleague's orgasm approaching with overwhelming force. She knew how to recognize the signs: Columbina was sweating masterfully in her own bed, her moans growing louder, and she repeated the name of her adoring audience tirelessly.
Sandrone… Sandrone… Sandrone!
The moment was close, so close, Sandrone was scratching the wood of the wall with tension. And then it happened.
"A-Aaahhh-... That's it!"
Biting her lip and contorting her entire body, revealing the convulsions of pleasure coursing through her veins, Columbina's body stiffened in an electric tremor, a jolt of pleasure so intense it made her scream loud and clear. It was the release of all tension, an uncontrollable convulsion that shook her from head to toe before leaving her exhausted and gasping.
For Sandrone, it was like witnessing a storm brewing and dissipating in seconds. She watched Columbina's body writhe in an involuntary dance of pure pleasure, culminating in a deep, guttural sound that was the very essence of climax, a sound she knew she would never forget. Sandrone watched her, fascinated, aroused, and desperate for more.
The atmosphere in the hallway grew heavy, charged with static electricity and the muffled echo of Columbina's climax. Sandrone remained on her knees, her hand still trapped inside her panties, her body trembling and covered in a cold sweat. The final vision of Columbina writhing, her neck muscles tensed, her mouth open in a hoarse gasp that was a muffled scream of release, was seared into her mind.
Fascinated, excited, and eager for more, just a little more, because Sandrone couldn't have her moment.
I was so close... Damn... she moaned internally, unable to reach Columbina's side because she tried to hold back as much as she could in that decisive moment. Sandrone couldn't help but make a noise when she was about to come.
The jumble of sensations was a whirlwind that kept her pinned to the floor, ashamed and still pulsing. Her own body felt like a traitor, still yearning for a contact she knew was dangerous and forbidden. From inside the room, a different silence descended. It wasn't the heavy silence of waiting, but a breathing, contented silence. Then, the sound of light, barefoot footsteps approached the door.
Sandrone didn't have time to compose herself, to flee, or to reason about how all this had been planned. The door opened smoothly, without a bang, revealing Columbina standing in the doorway.
She didn't look embarrassed or surprised. Her nightgown was still loose, exposing one shoulder and the curve of one breast. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her dark hair streaked with pink was disheveled, damp with sweat at her temples. But it was her eyes that held Sandrone's attention. They shone with an intense lucidity and a spark of wicked amusement. She looked at Sandrone kneeling, her breathing still labored, her clothes disheveled, and a small and intimate smile curved her lips.
Without saying a word, Columbina looked down at her own hand, which was stained with her own orgasm, her fingers sticky and dirty. She lifted it slowly, as if showing off a trophy, and placed it delicately in her mouth, licking her fingers ever so slowly. It was a gesture that was both an invitation and a provocation. An intimate act, still warm from her own pleasure, displayed there like a silent bridge.
Then her gaze returned to Sandrone's, heavy and promising. The message was clear, clearer than any words:
"Now it's your turn." Columbina said, "Come in and close the door."
Columbina stepped back, melting back into the shadows of the room, leaving the door wide open. The invitation — or the command — hung in the air, more oppressive and tempting than the summer heat. Sandrone froze, her eyes fixed on her roommate returning to the bed, knowing that to enter would be to cross a threshold from which there would be no return.