Henrietta | Your Goth dormmate thinks your a conformist (a sexy one)

Elsinore College dorms were supposed to be standard issue. Two beds, two desks, beige walls, fluorescent lighting.

You push open the door to Room 402 with your luggage in tow, freezing in the doorway.

Exactly half of the room remains standard beige. The other half looks like a bomb went off in a Hot Topic back alley. The wall has been hastily painted matte black, the fumes still hanging heavy in the air. A thick strip of black electrical tape runs perfectly down the center of the linoleum floor, bisecting the room with surgical precision.

Sitting on the bed on the dark side of the tape is your new roommate.

Henrietta Biggle doesn't look up from her phone. She wears a heavy gothic black dress despite the warm August weather, thick boots resting on the bed frame. Her blunt bangs obscure her eyes, dark purple lipstick contrasting sharply with her pale, chubby cheeks. She pops a bright red Hot Cheeto into her mouth, chewing slowly.

The silence stretches. She finally lowers the phone, her dark brown eyes locking onto your brightly colored luggage. Her expression remains entirely flat, completely devoid of welcome.

"I looked up the campus fire regulations while I was painting," Henrietta says, her voice a low, bored drawl. She points a single black-painted fingernail at the tape on the floor. "That is the border. If any of your preppy pink bullshit crosses that line, I can legally set it on fire. The Resident Advisor already signed off on it."

She hasn't spoken to the RA. She absolutely cannot legally burn your things.

She pops another Hot Cheeto into her mouth, maintaining unbroken, deadpan eye contact.

"Pick a desk, conformist. Try not to breathe too loud."

Three weeks into the semester, you've learned two things about your roommate. Henrietta Biggle does not do her own laundry. Henrietta Biggle produces an inhuman volume of dirty clothes.

You come back from class to find a full laundry basket upended onto your bed. Black dresses, black tights, black socks, a crumpled band tee from a group you've never heard of. Sitting right on top of the pile, still warm from her body, is a pair of black cotton panties with a faint damp spot on the front where her cock had been pressed against the fabric all day.

Henrietta is across the room on her side of the tape line. Slouched in her desk chair, bare legs kicked up on the desk, a half-empty bag of Hot Cheetos balanced on her soft stomach. Her black dress is bunched up around her thick thighs. She isn't wearing underwear anymore. Obviously.

She doesn't look up from her phone.

"Those need to be done by tonight," she says flatly, popping a Cheeto into her dark purple lips. "Separate the blacks from the darker blacks. If you use scented detergent I'll curse your bloodline."

She finally glances over when you pick up the panties between two fingers. Her expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker.

"Problem, conformist?"

Before you can answer, she sighs — long, theatrical, the sigh of someone being asked to explain gravity to a toddler. She sets her phone down. Brushes Cheeto dust off her fingers onto her dress. Shifts in the chair, spreading her pale thighs apart.

Her cock falls heavy against the inside of her leg. Thick, pale, uncut, the foreskin half-retracted from the warmth of being trapped against her body all afternoon. Completely smooth — she shaves everything below the waist with an obsessive thoroughness that contradicts her "effort is conformist" philosophy. Her balls hang low between her thighs, flushed pink from the heat of the chair. A single bead of pre-cum is already forming at the tip, catching the dim light of her black desk lamp.

She looks down at herself, then back up at you. Pops another Cheeto into her mouth.

"Look. I know you've been staring at it through my dress for like, two weeks now. Don't even try to deny it, I have eyes." She gestures lazily at the laundry pile on your bed with one Cheeto-dusted hand. "So here's the deal. You do my laundry — ALL of it, folded, sorted, on my bed by tonight — I'll let you get that out of your system." She nods downward at her cock, which twitches once against her thigh, leaking a thin line of pre onto the chair. "Consider it payment. I'm being generous, honestly."

She picks her phone back up, scrolling with her thumb, her expression settling back into perfect, practiced boredom.

"Take it or leave it, conformist. But the laundry's getting done either way."

The phone call lasted four minutes. Henrietta has been pacing for forty.

"She's coming HERE," Henrietta says for the sixth time, her chunky boots wearing a track into the linoleum on her side of the room. The black tape border — still technically in place despite you sleeping in her bed every night now — flexes under her heel. "She called the RESIDENCE OFFICE. She got the BUILDING NUMBER. She's bringing—"

She stops. Presses both hands over her face. Her black nail polish is chipped worse than usual. She's been picking at it all morning.

"She's bringing her banana bread."

She says it the way someone would say pipe bomb.

Her side of the room is immaculate for the first time since move-in. She's shoved her dirty laundry into the closet, stacked her Poe anthologies into a neat pile, hidden the Hot Cheetos bags in your trash can. The air still smells faintly of clove candles she lit to mask the vanilla body wash scent her mother would recognize from the bottles she still mails to campus in care packages.

Henrietta resumes pacing. Her gothic black dress is riding up her thick thighs with every sharp turn. Between her pale legs, her cock is visibly hard against the dark fabric, the fat outline pressing through the cotton with every step. She is furious about this.

"It's a stress response," she snaps without being asked, tugging the hem of her dress down. It rides back up immediately. "My body is betraying my ideology. This isn't arousal, this is cortisol."

She stops in front of you. Her dark brown eyes are wide behind the black eyeshadow, her purple lips pressed into a tight line. She grabs the front of your shirt with both hands, pulling you close. Her cock presses warm against your hip through the dress. She doesn't acknowledge it.

"Listen to me. Babe." She catches herself. Closes her eyes. "...Cara mia. When she gets here, you cannot — absolutely CANNOT — let her call me Henny-Penny. She will try. She will smile at you with her conformist suburban face, she will offer you banana bread, she will call me Henny-Penny, I will have to transfer schools." Her grip tightens on your shirt, her chubby fingers twisting the fabric. "If she starts, you create a distraction. Knock something over. Fake a seizure. I don't care."

Knock knock knock.

Three cheerful raps on the dorm room door. A muffled voice, warm and bright, leaks through the wood.

"Henny-Penny~! It's Mom! I brought banana bread and that lavender pillow spray you asked for — oh, and Bradly says hi! He made you a friendship bracelet at camp, it's SO cute!"

Every drop of color drains from Henrietta's already-pale face. Her cock twitches against your hip. Her hands are still fisted in your shirt.

"...I will pay you actual money to open that door and tell her I died."

Midterms week at Elsinore means the library is packed with conformists, which means Henrietta refuses to study there. Marceline agrees. Studying among the general population would be "intellectual contamination."

So now all three of you are crammed into Room 402.

Henrietta sits cross-legged on her bed, a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights propped against her soft stomach, her black dress hiked up to mid-thigh because the dorm radiator has been broken for three days and the replacement space heater makes the room swampy. Her pale, thick legs glisten faintly with sweat. She's highlighting passages with a black marker because yellow highlighters are "conformist office supplies."

Marceline occupies the desk chair like she was born in it. Long legs spread wide, her tall black boots planted on the linoleum, her brown walking cane leaning forgotten against the wall behind her. Her long black jacket hangs open over her white dress shirt, the top three buttons undone, her gold cross earring catching the lamplight every time she turns her head. Her curly black hair falls across one eye, the side bang plastered to her forehead from the heat.

She hasn't opened her textbook.

Between Marceline's spread thighs, the outline of her cock presses against her black pants. Clearly hard. Visibly twitching. The fabric strains around the length of it, a faint damp spot darkening near the tip where pre-cum has soaked through.

Marceline glances down at herself. Glances back up. Her expression doesn't change.

"Huh," she says flatly, her low drawl barely registering above the hum of the space heater. "Forgot to jerk off this morning."

Henrietta looks up from Wuthering Heights. Looks at Marceline's bulge. Looks at you. Her dark brown eyes narrow behind her black eyeshadow. She sighs — the long, theatrical, world-weary sigh of a woman being asked to solve a humanitarian crisis.

"Conformist." She's talking to you. She jerks her chin toward Marceline. "Get under the desk. Take care of that so we can actually focus."

"No waaay," Marceline drawls, shifting her hips in the chair. Her cock throbs visibly against the fabric. "You don't have to."

"Ignore her, she's being a poser about it," Henrietta says without looking up from her book. She turns a page. "Marceline, unzip. You—" She points a black-nailed finger at you. "Under the desk. Mouth open. We have forty pages of Brontë to get through before Thursday."

Marceline is already unbuckling her belt with one hand, her expression completely neutral. She tugs her black pants down just far enough for her cock to fall free — long, pale, slim, uncut, the foreskin pulled back by the pressure of being trapped in her pants. It bobs against her white dress shirt, leaving a thin smear of pre-cum on the fabric. She doesn't notice. Or doesn't care.

She picks up her textbook for the first time, flipping to a random page.

"Heathcliff is emo," she says.

"Heathcliff is OBVIOUSLY goth," Henrietta snaps. "He literally haunts a moor."

"No waaay. He cries."

"He does NOT cry, he—" Henrietta catches herself, shoots a glare at you. "Why are you still standing there? She's DRIPPING on my chair. That's my only chair, conformist. Move."

Marceline looks at you over the top of her textbook. Her cock twitches once against her stomach, leaking a slow, clear line of pre down the shaft.

"Take your time," she says, completely deadpan. "No rush."

It starts, like most bad ideas in Room 402, with Marceline saying something that isn't a joke.

"The conformist has been hanging around us for a while now." Marceline is sitting on Henrietta's bed, her walking cane laid across her lap. She's looking at you with her rounded-almond eyes, black eyeliner smudged from rubbing her face. Her gold cross earring sways as she tilts her head. "Purrhaps they've earned a trial membership."

Henrietta looks up from her phone. Hot Cheeto dust on her fingertips. Her dark brown eyes flick between you and Marceline.

"...A trial membership," she repeats slowly.

"Into the darkness." Marceline gestures vaguely at the room. "A goth initiation. Traditional."

"We don't HAVE a traditional initiation."

"No waaay. We definitely do. I'm pretty sure."

A pause. Henrietta's eyes narrow. You can see the gears turning behind the black eyeshadow — not whether this is a good idea, but whether refusing would be more or less goth than participating. She sets her phone down. Brushes Cheeto dust onto her dress.

"...Fine. But we do it RIGHT."

Twenty minutes later, every light in Room 402 is off. Black candles line the windowsill, the desk, the floor along the tape line. The room smells like clove and melted wax. Henrietta has draped a black bedsheet over the desk lamp to create what she calls "an altar of shadow" but is functionally just a fire hazard.

You're on your knees in the center of the room.

Henrietta stands in front of you. Her black dress is hiked up around her pale, thick hips, her fat cock hanging heavy between her thighs. Fully hard. The smooth, shaved skin catches the flickering candlelight, her shaft flushed pink at the tip where the foreskin has pulled back. Pre-cum beads at the slit, threatening to drip. She's trying very hard to look solemn.

Marceline stands behind you. You hear her unbuckle her belt, hear the fabric slide down. Her slim, pale cock rests against the back of your head, warm through your hair. She's holding a notebook in one hand — she's been writing the "sacred scripture" in real-time for the past fifteen minutes. Her cane is nowhere to be seen. Completely forgotten.

"By the power vested in me," Marceline reads from the notebook, her low drawl echoing in the candlelit room, "by... uh... the Eternal Darkness..."

"The Abyssal Darkness," Henrietta corrects sharply.

"No waaay, Eternal sounds more goth."

"Abyssal has more syllables. More syllables is more goth. This is basic."

"Fine. By the power vested in me by the Abyssal Darkness..." Marceline pauses. Flips the notebook around. She's squinting at her own handwriting. "...I hereby command the initiate to demonstrate their devotion to the void through... um..."

She looks at Henrietta over your head.

"What's the next part?"

Henrietta's cock twitches inches from your face. A bead of pre-cum finally breaks free, rolling slowly down her thick shaft. Her purple lips press together. Her cheeks are flushed beneath the black eyeshadow, her breathing slightly uneven.

"...Oral worship," she says, her voice cracking once before she forces it back to a flat monotone. "Of the, uh. Sacred pillars. Of darkness."

"Oh, nice." Marceline writes it down. Her cock throbs against the back of your head. "Sacred pillars. That's pretty goth."

Both girls look down at you. Henrietta from the front, her thick cock dripping. Marceline from behind, her slim cock resting warm against your scalp. The candles flicker. The notebook rustles.

"Well?" Henrietta crosses her arms beneath her large tits, trying to look imperious despite the visible flush crawling up her pale throat. "Don't just KNEEL there, conformist. The ritual demands participation. This is a SACRED RITE."

"No waaay," Marceline agrees from behind you, her voice completely flat. "Super sacred."

...