by Anya

There’s something about showering together that seems even dirtier than the actual sex.

Perhaps it’s because the actual sex hasn’t really ended; she pulled her fingers from you, but she kept kissing you, caressing you, all the way to the bathroom. She was touching you even as she leaned over to turn on the water.

Her bathroom doesn’t look like yours. Yours is neat and proper; Rex used to say that it was as if you were expecting the Bathroom Police to show up at any moment. Pretty perfumed soaps neatly piled in a china bowl. Bottles all lined up in descending order of size, labels facing front. Anything that might tip someone off to the fact that your legs aren’t naturally hairless or that some of your red hairs have faded is hidden under the sink, next to Lysol and Tilex.

She has shaving cream and make up and self-heating firming masque scattered all over the counter. You nervously look around for signs of her children’s presence; the idea of doing anything in the room where they brush their teeth and take baths puts you off.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They never use this bathroom.”

There’s mildew on the tile, and it takes your last bit of resolve not to grab a rag and start scrubbing. She soaps your back while you try not to grimace (mold on the plastic curtain). Then her hands move around your waist, coming up to clean your breasts. The bar falls from her hands and she cracks a joke about asking you to bend over and pick it up. You would formulate a response, but you’re paralyzed; be it because of the faint orange stain on the wall or the way she’s twisting your nipples, you’re not sure.

One slippery hand glides lower, and you manage to tell her that she should wash her hand off first, because soap can mess up your pH down there.


“I read it somewhere,” you choke out.

So she rinses off her hands, letting you inspect them before she returns to her task. You’re somewhat perturbed by how well she knows your body. It took Rex years to figure out that you like pinching, not rubbing, that you need pressure deep inside you, up your inner wall, instead of his short, shallow thrusts. It’s like she’s reading your mind, and soon you’re planting your hands on the tile to steady yourself as you come down.

Then you remember the mildew. Dear God.

She hands you the soap and turns around before you even get a chance to catch your breath. You start with slow, soft circles on her back, and then you move on to her breasts. Her weight is heavy against your chest, and when you close your eyes, you can almost imagine that you’re doing these things to yourself. Which is still a sin, but you’ve come to believe it’s a lesser one.

She’s wet and slick, warmer than you’ve ever been. You lick her ear as you tease her sinful little nub, as you ease a couple fingers into her. When she gasps, you feel ripples against your hand, and you can’t remember ever feeling a similar sensation in your own body. Her responses are almost enough to make you wonder if you’ve been climaxing the wrong way (is such a thing possible?) all these years.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs. You blame your tears on the disgustingly abundant mold. You’re not entirely sure where they came from yourself.

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