6. Showers Are Supposed To Get You Clean But Mine Got Me Dirty
SHOWERS ARE SUPPOSED TO GET YOU CLEAN BUT MINE GOT ME DIRTY
MARY KATE
The first thing I taste when I leave Kent’s office is him—salty, almost sweet, and utterly irresistible on my tongue.
The second thing is my own breath, shallow and tight, as I back away from the closed door and press my fingers to my face, not sure if I want to wipe the evidence of his semen away or rub it deeper into my skin.
The house is quiet. More than quiet, it’s entombed, as if the walls themselves have signed a nondisclosure.
I creep up the grand staircase on bare feet, the marble stairs freezing against my toes and making the bones of my arches ache, every step echoing up through my legs to the spot between them that Kent has just trained into a living, buzzing wire.
My room is at the near end of the third floor, perfectly situated with its own en suite.
But I walk right past it, clutching my phone, my heart a feral animal in my ribs.
The guest bath, further down the hallway, is the biggest, the best, the one with the glass shower the size of a zoo enclosure.
I open the door to the restroom, step inside, and leave it hanging two inches from the jamb—an invitation as much as an oversight.
Why am I doing this? I don’t know, but my mind clamps down before I can probe my reasons any further.
The only thing I know for sure is that my body’s aching.
My breasts are tight, my pussy drenched, and I need something, even if I can’t articulate what that is just yet.
My eyes take a second to adjust. There’s something unreal about the light in here, all golden and flattering, the sconces throwing geometric shadows across the Carrara marble and the thick, glinting hardware. I close the toilet lid and sit, then just stop, and let it catch up.
The man of the house let me touch him tonight for the second time.
Not just let—he wanted it, leaned into my hands, groaned when I found the seam that made his hips jump.
He came so hard I thought he’d snap the table in two.
And then, he wiped the cum from my face and smiled as I tasted it, those blue eyes gleaming.
My hands are trembling, but not from fear.
I think of Kent’s body: his thighs, the dusting of dark hair, the heat of his skin under my fingers.
I think of the curve of his cock, so tantalizing up close—thick, veined, with a pulse you can practically hear.
I remember the way his balls felt in my palms, slick with oil, heavy and tight.
I remember his voice when he called me sweetheart. I want to remember it forever.
The bathroom fills with a slow, humid breath as I twist the shower handle and let the water run.
Steam billows, curling around the double vanity and fogging the big gilt-framed mirror.
I undo my hair and shed my t-shirt, then stand in front of the mirror, letting the heat and sandalwood from the oil rise off my skin.
I look at myself: hair loose and damp at the edges, a red ghost of a fingerprint on my cheek where I rubbed too hard.
My mouth is swollen, lips shiny from the gloss and from Kent, and my nipples—oh god—my nipples are pushing out so hard they almost hurt.
I tug at the waist of my jeans, working the button with shaking hands, then peel them down, along with my underwear, the cotton dark and sticky at the crotch.
I’m bare now, the glass and marble turning me into pure ivory, every detail thrown back at me a thousandfold.
I run a hand up my side, over the soft pad of my belly, then cup one large breast, thumb circling the nipple.
Oooh, that feels good! But I know I’m stalling.
I know what I want. I just want to draw it out a little longer, see how it feels to make the world wait for me.
I glance at the open door, the slice of shadow beyond, and for a second I think I see a movement—a shift, a shimmer, the flick of a head turning away.
My whole body prickles. Oh my god, could it be …
? But instead of being alarmed, I feel aroused.
Hell, I feel naughty. With a soft smile, I turn, angle myself away from the door, and bend at the waist, bracing one hand on the vanity.
With the other, I reach back and spread myself open, just for a heartbeat.
The air is warm now, the steam wafting over my deep pink insides.
My pussy lips are swollen and glossy, the inner ones peeking out, glistening.
I want someone to see. I want Kent to see.
I hold the pose, counting to three, letting my pussy show itself as my asshole clenches, and then straighten and let out a little giggle.
There’s a low groan from out there. I can feel it in my bones, and the deep, masculine tone emboldens me.
With a flip of my hair over my shoulder, I open the stall door and step into the shower.
The water is almost too hot, needling my skin, but I don’t turn it down.
I lean my forehead against the tile, letting the steam close in, then close my eyes and re-live the last hour, frame by frame.
I see myself walking into Kent’s office, hands sweating, heart pounding.
I see the way his eyes went straight to my breasts, then to my bare feet, then back to my eyes.
I see the way he sat, legs spread, sweatpants tented and obvious, not even pretending to hide how hard he was.
I see myself kneeling at the end of the table, pouring the oil into my hand, feeling it run down my wrist. I see the first time I touched him, how his cock jerked in my hand, how he made that sound—raw, guttural, like he couldn’t help himself.
I see the look on his face when he realized I loved touching him, and hope to never stop.
I press my palm to my own mound, fingers sliding between the lips, already slippery with need.
I don’t even try to be gentle. I rub hard, fast, the way I imagine Kent would, breath coming in gasps as I stroke my clit.
I think of his hands on me, the way he’d push my knees apart and hold me open, the way he’d say my name in that deep, slow voice.
“Fuck baby,” he’d rasp, blue eyes like live wire. “You’re my dirty little slut. Come for me, sweetheart.”
“Oh Daddy, yes,” I whisper, not caring if anyone hears. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Steam snakes down the inside of the glass, distorting everything outside the shower into an impressionist blur.
My body is a watercolor—ivory and pink, all edges melting.
I stop stroking my pussy for a moment and turn into the spray, lean my back into the cool slab of marble, and begin the fun again.
The water is hot, almost scalding, but the stone behind me steals the warmth from my skin.
I arch away, then press into it again, shivering at the contrast. My hands start at my neck, skimming down over collarbones, then cupping my big breasts, squeezing hard enough to leave prints.
My nipples are so stiff they ache under my thumbs.
I rub them in slow, hard circles, then pinch until I gasp.
“Oooh!” I pant. “That feels so good, Daddy!”
I can almost hear the rumble of his reply in my ear, but I know it’s just my imagination.
I let my hands drift lower, over the curve of my belly, tracing the path that Kent’s eyes always follow when he thinks I’m not looking.
The memory of his hands, his voice, the way he groaned when I worked him tonight—it all crashes back at once, a sharp, sweet pressure in my chest and a deeper one below.
I slip my fingers between my thighs, find myself so wet—pathetically, shamelessly wet, even with the water streaming everywhere.
I lean my head back, mouth open, and let the water hit my face.
My other hand strokes circles on my clit, hot gasps escaping my throat.
I close my eyes and see Kent: on the table, head thrown back, cock straining in my hands, every muscle in his body tight and shaking.
I hear the sounds he made—low, animal, hungry.
I imagine him grabbing me by the hair and yanking my mouth onto him, no pretense, no tenderness, just pure want and the hot hugeness of him between my lips, choking me.
“Mmmph,” I grunt in the shower. “Ummm!”
My fingers circle my clit, slow at first, then rougher, slipping lower, spreading the lips apart until my whole hand is soaked.
I angle my hips forward and fuck myself with two fingers, then three, knuckles working hard and fast. It’s not delicate or dreamy; it’s filthy, needy, urgent. I want it to hurt a little.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” I whisper, and the shower drowns it out, but in my mind it echoes through the whole house.
I picture him behind me, pushing me down over the marble edge, his hands bruising my hips, the thick head of his cock prodding against me, bigger than anything I’ve ever had inside.
I imagine him calling me his good girl, his dirty girl, his favorite, his only.
I want him to force it, to not even care if that massive penis fits inside my tiny vag.
I work my hand faster, palm grinding, wrist aching, and the fantasy grows sharper—Kent bending me over the sink, spreading me open, saying my name. I say his, out loud, just to feel it in my mouth: “Kent. Oh fuck, Kent—”
The orgasm comes in a slow, rolling surge, then slams into me all at once, a tidal wave from toes to scalp.
My whole body shakes. I moan, loudly, not caring if it’s real or just in my head.
My forehead thuds against the marble, legs nearly give out, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming his name a second time.
“Oooh,” I whimper helplessly. “Mmmm.”
I ride the aftershocks for a long time, my chest heaving, water washing away the sweat and everything else. I want to stay in this moment forever—hot, numb, spent.
But then, in the pause between the next wave of water and my own ragged breath, I hear it.
A single creak, out in the hall. The exact floorboard outside the bathroom. Instantly I freeze, the blood in my veins going from liquid fire to molten lava. I listen, holding my breath.
Nothing.
I glance at the gap in the doorway, the line of steam curling out into the darkness, and for a second I picture my gorgeous stepfather there—just on the other side, watching, maybe with his own hand wrapped around his cock, eyes locked on the shower glass, waiting to see what I’d do if I knew he was there.
The idea makes me pulse all over again.
I don’t move. I don’t cover up. I just stand there, completely exposed, water running down my body in streams, nipples flushed and hard, pussy still twitching. I want him to see me. I want him to watch. I even pull my pussy lips open a bit, showing off my gleaming clit as if begging for a kiss.
Because I want him to want me, every bit as much as I want him.
But there’s silence, and no hint of movement.
Disappointment makes my shoulders slump.
After a long minute, I turn off the water, slide open the shower door, and step out, dripping, leaving a pattern of wet footprints on the tile.
The room is warm and thick with sandalwood and sex, the mirror fogged except for the oval where my breath has cleared it.
My reflection looks wrecked—lips parted, cheeks streaked with red, hair a tangle down my back.
I dry off slowly, glancing at the open doorway every few seconds, half-hoping he’ll step in, half-fearing it. I wrap myself in a towel and bend over to gather my clothes, but something’s missing.
My panties. The ones I left on the floor, damp in the crotch, pale pink with lace on the waistband.
They’re gone.
I stand there, towel clutched at my chest, and stare at the empty patch of floor. A flush creeps up my throat, hotter than the shower, and I smile—small, wicked, secret. I know exactly what happened to them. I know who took them. The knowledge makes me bold, almost wild with pleasure.
I walk back to my room with nothing underneath the towel, hips swaying more than necessary, letting the fabric gap open whenever I pass a darkened doorway.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll leave something else out for him to take.
Or maybe I’ll just leave the door wide open, and see if he comes in.
Either way, I hope my stepfather never stops watching.