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was as if she was determined to make him grovel to her just for the pleasure of denying him.
    For most of the term she teased him, flirting and then pulling back, letting him think she was interested, only to go off with another man. Only after he had won his place in the boat did she take him to bed, by which time he must have been fit to burst. Being next door, I had to listen to them shagging. I could make out some of the things they said, as well: not clearly, but well enough to drive me to distraction. I had been trying to write an essay, but ended up with my skirt up and my hand down my panties as I masturbated over the thought of what they were doing. After a mediocre orgasm, I felt distinctly lonely and left out, falling asleep while they were still at it.
    The following evening, I was sitting alone with a cup of coffee when I heard someone knock at her door. I sighed, resigning myself to another disturbed night, and wondering if I would be able to resist playing with myself while he humped her. She answered her door, and I heard her voice quite clearly in the passage. Rather than enthusiastic and sexy, which was her normal tone, she sounded surprised and rather annoyed.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ he asked.
    â€˜Just leave, OK?’ she answered.
    â€˜But I thought we . . .’ he said, sounding hurt.
    â€˜I know what you thought,’ she replied aggressively, ‘and I can tell you this, it’s not going to happen again.’
    Somebody turned a tap on and their voices became indistinct. I’d heard her give other men the same treatment, but was still a bit surprised. He was, after all, now a recognised athlete, and being his girlfriend should have carried all the prestige she wanted. Evidently she felt that turning him down after one night would make her look even more impressive. Her attitude struck me as completely unreasonable. She clearly saw sex with him as a sort of trophy, which was bad enough, yet I felt that at the least she could have rejected him politely.
    â€˜Come on, Tiffy, it wasn’t so bad,’ he was pleading as their voices became distinct again.
    â€˜Just take your dirty chocolates and fuck off!’ she screamed and, a second later, the door slammed.
    He knocked again but she didn’t answer, leaving him standing in the passage. I felt really sorry for him, and we got on well enough in the labs, so I opened the door. He was standing outside her room with a big box of chocolates in his hand, looking crestfallen.
    â€˜Hi, Aran, are you OK?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he sighed.
    â€˜I heard,’ I said. ‘Come inside and have a coffee.’
    Of course, Tiffany could hear all of this, just as I could hear her. As she barely condescended to speak to me anyway, I didn’t really care. She had talked to me in the first week, put me down as socially unimportant and pretty well ignored me ever since.
    â€˜Thanks,’ he answered, treating me to a big grin and coming into my room.
    Just having him there was enough to excite me. He was huge, well over six foot and very powerfully built. There was something about his hands in particular, enormous yet long-fingered and sensitive-looking. His skin was wonderful, too, dark and glossy and smooth. I could have melted on the spot and wouldn’t have minded acting as substitute for Tiffany in the least.
    I let him have my chair, made the coffee and passed it to him, then sat at his feet, all of it calculated to make me seem helpful and willing. Of course, it was a waste of time. All he wanted to talk about was Tiffany, and how much he yearned for her and how wonderful she was. He was genuinely down, almost in tears, otherwise I think I’d have thrown him out from sheer frustration.
    By one o’clock, my eyelids were beginning to drop. We had eaten most of his chocolates, and he was still going on about Tiffany. I really couldn’t take it any more, but nor could I bring myself