Chapter 14: Breakfast: Bathing the Hunter
The bathroom air shifted from the sharp chill of the cloth to a deepening, humid warmth. Wanda moved to the tub, finally turning the taps. The water rushed out, steaming. She poured in a generous glug of jasmine-scented oil from a dark glass bottle, and the room began to fill with its heady, intimate perfume.
Yelena stood on the mat, her skin still humming from the cold washing, from the spank, from the sheer vulnerability of it all. She watched Natasha, who had drifted into the room and was leaning against the marble vanity, one hand braced on its cool surface. Natasha’s eyes were fixed on Wanda, but her body was telling a different story. Her hips made tiny, unconscious circles against the vanity’s edge. The thin silk of her shorts was darkened at the center, a soaked patch clinging to her. Her nipples were hard peaks pressing against her tank top. She was breathing through her mouth, slow and controlled, but a fine tremor ran through the muscle of her thigh.
“See how much she likes this?” Wanda said softly, not turning from the tub as she tested the water with her wrist. “How much she needs to see you cared for? My good girl, letting me take care of her sister.”
Natasha whimpered, the sound swallowed by the rush of water. She bit her knuckle.
Wanda turned off the taps. The water was perfect, deep and shimmering. She turned back to Yelena and extended a hand. “Come.”
Yelena stepped into the bath, the heat a shocking, enveloping comfort after the cold. She sank down with a sigh that was half-relief, half-surrender. The water rose to her chest, the oily surface hiding her body in a silken, opaque veil. Wanda knelt on the bath mat beside the tub, her sleeves rolled up.
She reached for Yelena’s hair. Her nimble fingers found the elastic holding Yelena’s messy bun. She pulled it free, and long, damp blonde strands tumbled down. Wanda’s hands were in her hair then, not rushing, working through the tangles from the mission, from sleep, with a patience that felt infinite. Her fingertips found Yelena’s scalp, massaging in slow, firm circles.
A groan ripped itself from Yelena’s throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, the kind that comes from a touch you didn’t know you were starving for. Every knot of tension, every clenched muscle from a life spent on alert, seemed to dissolve under Wanda’s hands. Her head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut.
“There you go,” Wanda murmured, her voice a vibration in the steam-filled air. “Let it go. You’re safe here. You’re ours.”
Yelena felt floaty, boneless. The heat of the water, the scent of jasmine, the magical press of Wanda’s fingers on her scalp—it was a benevolent trance. She was aware of Natasha watching, of the sharp, wet sounds coming from the direction of the vanity, but it all felt distant, secondary to the fundamental rightness of Wanda’s care.
Wanda reached for a bottle of shampoo, working a rich lather into her hair. Her movements were methodical, loving. She tipped Yelena’s head back, cradling it in one hand while using the other to rinse the suds away with a clean ceramic cup. The water sluiced over Yelena’s forehead, her temples. She was putty.
Then Wanda’s hands left her hair. They slid down, over her slick shoulders, into the water. One hand rested on Yelena’s knee under the surface, a warm, heavy weight. The other trailed through the water, a slow, meandering path up the inside of her thigh.
Yelena’s eyes flew open. The trance snapped, replaced by a wire-tight anticipation. Wanda wasn’t looking at her face. She was gazing down into the water, her expression one of focused curiosity.
“Look,” Wanda said, her voice low and impossibly intimate.
Yelena looked down between her legs to where Wanda had motioned. In the clear water near the overflow drain, a thick, opaque strand was seeping from her, a continuous, slow leak that clouded momentarily before being swept away by the gentle movement of the bath. It was unmistakable. She was cumming. Not in pulses, but in a steady, helpless flow, triggered by nothing but the safety, the care, the overwhelming intimacy of Wanda bathing her.
A choked sound of shock escaped her.
From the vanity, Natasha let out a ragged, breathless laugh. “I did tell you that you were lucky,” she gasped, her voice strained. Her hips were stuttering now in a faster, desperate rhythm against the marble. “Same thing happened to me every time Wanda is giving me a bath. You just… you lose yourself. And your body just… thanks her.”