Chapter 6
Tilly
I probably shouldn’t have told John that I’m fucking filthy, but he asked me that question when there was a wall between us and gave me a second to think about it, so I took advantage of the silence there and decided to go for gold.
I do feel filthy. But when I lie there, feeling his cum leak from me down my thighs and ass, onto the bedding beneath me, that feeling of filth morphs from the ever-present disgust I feel over how I look and the cancer that may still fester inside me into the sexy filthy I love to wallow in.
And I feel . . . human. In a way I haven’t in so long.
I limp into the bathroom, expecting to shower together, but the seat in the tub is opened and John is sitting on a stool next to the tub.
The way he’s seated, man-sprawled, his cock half-mast, has me thinking he’s planning to stay there awhile.
He insisted he was going to clean me; I suppose he’s realized that the ADA tub is the easiest way to do it.
But the way he stares at me, leaning forward on that stool, his eyes darkened to maritime storms, makes me think he’s planning more than just cleaning.
“Finish undressing yourself, Trixie. I want it all off.”
I swallow at that. It’s another thing that wouldn’t have been all that strange for me a couple years ago. However the clothes get taken off works for me. But even before, I wouldn’t have been comfortable with the bright lights of this bathroom.
But I’m a good escort. I can take control of this situation, bring things back to mood lighting. A dimmer room would make everything sexier, I figure. Hell, this could have been his plan all along.
“Yes, John,” I say in my silkiest voice as I lean against the wall and flatten my hand over the switch, casually nudging the dimmer.
“No,” John snaps, his voice sharp. Serious.
“Oh, uhh, it’s a little too bright in here, don’t you think?”
“I need to see what I paid for. I need to inspect my purchase.”
With a flutter of nerves, I nod again, finding my inner balance.
I like how firm his voice is, actually. I like the challenge.
I don’t like being made uncomfortable, but the way he speaks adds a perverse excitement to it.
Things got too real for a minute there. I was genuinely worried that the serious talk had ruined the rest of the night, but he’s right back to treating me like a prostitute. That’s what I wanted.
That’s what I want.
So I’m smiling to myself as I push my stockings down. I’m not sexy about it, not any sexier than the act itself is. I don’t play with them. I don’t flick them at him. I simply drop one, then the other to the ground.
The gloves go next, plucking one finger at a time to loosen them before tugging them off and dropping them with the stockings. The various bits and pieces of chunky jewelry go, too, leaving me completely bare except for the wig.
He looks up at it. I see him contemplating.
But he doesn’t say anything. A lot of men don’t know the amount of work that goes into wigs and the mess that’s typically underneath, but he nods and gestures to the tub.
“Okay, now you’re going to wash yourself for me.
Use the wand. I need you clean, Trixie. Squeaky fucking clean. ”
I keep the temperature lukewarm, not quite hot enough to make my skin redden any more than it already is.
The moment it splashes my nipples, they harden.
I stand there next to the seat, ignoring it as I scrub my chest, arms, and legs, lifting my ponytail and spinning eventually so the water runs down my shoulders and back.
It’s sensual. Intimate. It hits a spot that creates a unique bond for two strangers who have shared only the physical but have shared it at a level that seems impossible without more.
I don’t even think I’ve said the word ‘cancer’ to him, although I imagine he’s guessed it.
And yet I’m washing myself in front of him, allowing him to see this most banal but private moment, and he watches me as though the act itself is sustenance.
“Now sit and show me how filthy your pussy is,” he commands in a low, casual voice, commanding but not rude. Not meant to offend. He’s just as pleased that my pussy is filthy as I am.
I take the shower wand off the wall but leave it at my side as I sit, spreading my legs wide. Dipping my middle finger into my pussy, I find a string of cum there, which I drag out slowly, letting it stretch.
His breathing slows, his focus narrowing in on the act, but then he says, “Keep your legs spread wide while you scrub yourself clean.”
His message is clear enough. I turn the shower head on myself, letting the jets spray directly onto my sensitive, exposed clit, sending a shock straight through me with the force of it. I have to take a steadying breath so I can say, “Like this?”
“Yeah, Trixie, just like that.” He leans back in his chair and takes hold of his cock, stroking himself in a lazy rhythm that seems impossible to me right now.
The showerhead is overwhelming, the jet bashing into the tender flesh, blowing through all its protections to blast every nerve ending.
I tilt back, resting against the cold tile that makes my shoulders cry out.
It only takes a few seconds to get my legs pulling up toward my stomach, but that only exposes me more.
I explode with a gasp and a series of muscle spasms that have my body attempting to curl up on the little seat, but John takes hold of my knees to lower them, spreading them until the stretch aches along my inner thighs.
“I need you clean everywhere, Trix. Get that hole clean.”
Blood pounds in my ears. I resist the urge to give up on the seat entirely and curl up on the floor of the tub.
Instead, I do as he tells me, dipping my fingers down into my pussy to spread it as wide as I can.
I take a breath before tilting the wand so one of the jets sprays inside me.
I squirm, unsure if I like it or not. It’s like scratching an itch but not an itch that should be scratched.
I feel it pool inside me for a couple seconds before filling up what little space there was and draining down my ass.
John’s face, set in a stern expression since I entered the bathroom, lightens a little. Just a tug at his lips and a lift at his eyes, but I see it, and it warms me. If this sight makes him happy, I’ve done my job.
I’m a good whore for him. Nothing more. Nothing different, just a whore, but a good one. This isn’t hitting any of the best spots, only swishing at my G-spot, my clit forgotten, but his satisfaction might be enough to make me come.
“And now your other hole,” he murmurs.
I must scowl or something. My response is definitely negative.
He flattens his palms against my shins to coax my legs up until the arches of my feet settle on the edge of the tub.
Whatever he sees, it’s not good enough for him.
He lifts me up by my ass, his muscles barely even straining beyond his abdominals puffing up, and resettles me on the edge of the seat.
He frowns.
“It’s fine, I can reach,” I huff, trying not to get offended. But, I mean, every horrid inch of me is fully exposed under the blinding light right now. And not to be a brat or anything, but I just power-washed my pussy. I’m pretty sure my ass is fine.
“It’s not,” he growls. “I need that asshole so clean I can eat it.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but it’s enough to get a startled gasp out of me, which of course he responds to with a grin that tells me he’s pleased with how shocked I am.
He picks me up again, this time scooping me out of the tub, leaning my body against his so I end up covered in shimmery bronzer despite all the work I put into washing up, and tucks the seat away.
Then he sets me back on my feet but turned away from him and hands the shower wand back.
“There, now wash your asshole, Trixie.”
Oh, boy.
But I’m not easily daunted. I take a washcloth, lather it up with soap, then bend over so he can watch me as I reach around and scrub myself there. It tingles just as much as the wand did on my pussy. When I replace the washcloth with the shower head, I swear my whole body puckers up.
“Again,” John says. I guess he’s an ass man. I don’t mind.
I scrub and rinse myself twice more before John nods, turns the water off, and buries his face between my ass cheeks.
“Noooooooo,” I groan, and I might actually mean it this time. I don’t know what time it is, but at some point, John sealed up the heaviest layer of light-blocking curtains, so I have a feeling I’ve already missed the first panels of the day.
And I’m sore all over, but when I say, “No,” I mostly feel that ache in my jaw.
We were in the bathroom for over an hour, John licking me everywhere before making me wash him as thoroughly as I washed myself so I could lick him everywhere.
The aching in my jaw would be from when he made me kneel in front of him and open my mouth as wide as possible with my tongue sticking out so he could rub the head of his dick on it.
He was oddly gentle and careful with it, his brows as furrowed in concentration as they could be with the prosthetics still glued to it.
His costume might have been a craft project, but a professional did that face.
He fucked my face for what felt like forever but was probably no more than ten minutes.
But it was ten minutes of my jaw dropped, of almost no breaks, even when I said I was going to drool everywhere, and he gave me that wink to show he was fully aware and all about it.
I figured you only live once — okay, thanks to my body being a disaster, I sort of had a couple cardiac arrests, so I guess I’ve lived a few times now — and drooled everywhere.