Chapter 7: Finding Sarah
The silence in the bedroom was fragile, a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake of everything they weren’t saying. The phantom sensations of the voices’ graphic descriptions still clung to their skin like a film. Brogan could still feel the ghost of the thing’s arrogance in her posture, the echo of its words in her mind. Her skin crawled with it.
“I need a shower,” she announced, her voice rough. It wasn’t a request. It was a necessity. She needed to scrub the feeling of that other presence off her, to wash away the sweat, the chlorine, and the lingering shame.
She stood, her legs feeling unsteady, and walked toward the bathroom without looking back. She heard the quick, panicked shuffle of footsteps behind her.
“Wait,” Alex breathed, her voice tight. “Don’t… don’t leave me alone with it. Please.”
Brogan paused at the bathroom door, her hand on the frame. She looked back at Alex, who stood clutching her elbows, her face pale and eyes wide with a fear that was entirely her own. The compulsion was silent for now, but the threat of it was a third person in the room.
Brogan gave a single, tight nod. “Okay. Come on.”
The bathroom was small, tiled in clean, white subway patterns. Brogan turned on the shower, and the spray hitting the porcelain tub was the loudest, most normal sound she’d heard in hours. Steam began to curl into the air, carrying the simple, clean scent of a generic lavender body wash.
They stood for a moment, the mirror already fogging over, obscuring their reflections. The act of undressing felt monumental.
Brogan went first, pulling the thin camisole over her head. The air was cool on her bare skin.
Oh, yes. Show her what you’ve got. Let her see those big, heavy tits jiggle. Bet she’s getting wet just looking at them. Look at her, the pretty little thing. She wants to get her hands on you.
She ignored the voice, focusing on the practical task. She unbuttoned the denim cutoffs and stepped out of them, standing completely naked. She didn’t look at Alex, just placed her clothes neatly on the closed toilet lid.
Alex, moving with hesitant, jerky motions, pulled the soft t-shirt over her head. Her smaller, perkier breasts were exposed, her nipples tightening in the humid air.
“God, look at me,” Alex’s voice said, the words dripping with a lurid appreciation that twisted her fearful expression. “My tits are so perfect and round. They’re just begging to be sucked. And you… fuck, Brogan, your body is a wet dream. Those hips are made for holding onto while you get pounded.”
Brogan kept her gaze fixed on the shower stream. “It’s not you,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I know it’s not you saying that.”
She reached out and turned the water to a warmer temperature, then stepped over the edge of the tub and into the spray. She let out a shuddering breath as the hot water hit her back, sluicing over her shoulders. It was a relief so profound it felt spiritual.
A second later, the curtain rustled, and Alex stepped in behind her.
The space was cramped for one, let alone two. Their bodies, all soft curves and new, sensitive skin, were forced into proximity. Brogan felt the brush of Alex’s arm against her back, a fleeting, electric contact.
“Here,” Alex said, her real voice small but determined beneath the steam. She picked up the loofah, squeezed a generous amount of the lavender gel onto it, and began to scrub Brogan’s back. Her movements were firm, practical. She worked over the tense muscles of Brogan’s shoulders, down the line of her spine.
“That’s it, rub her down,” Alex’s other voice purred. “Get her all nice and clean and slippery. I want to see the soap suds sliding over those huge tits and that fat ass. You should get on your knees and wash her with your tongue, you know she’d love it.”
Brogan closed her eyes, leaning into the scrubbing motion. She focused on the feeling of the loofah scraping away the grime, the heat of the water, the simple, kind act of being cleaned. She accepted the care, using it as a shield against the filthy narration.
After a few minutes, when her skin felt pink and new, Brogan turned around. Water plastered her blonde hair to her face. “My turn,” she said softly.
She took the loofah from Alex’s hand. Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded, a silent surrender.
Brogan started on Alex’s shoulders, much more gently than Alex had done for her. She was hyper-aware of the difference in their bodies now—Alex’s was compact, almost dancer-like, where her own was lush and heavy. She worked the loofah in slow, circular motions, washing away the sweat and fear from the other woman’s skin.
Oh, god, look at her. So small and tight. Her skin is like silk. I want to bite that perfect, perky little ass. Lather her up, get your hands all over those perfect tits. Slide the soap between her legs, see if she gasps. Do it. She wants you to.
The internal voice was a scream of want, a desperate, clawing thing that yearned to take control of her hands, to turn this act of hygiene into something else entirely. Brogan’s breath hitched. Her fingers trembled around the loofah. For a terrifying moment, she felt the impulse to drop it, to let her palms slide over Alex’s breasts, to explore the new territory of her body with a claiming touch.
She clenched her jaw, her knuckles white. No.
She forced her movements to remain clinical, gentle. She washed Alex’s back, her arms, carefully avoiding the most intimate areas. It was a battle fought in the space of a few inches, a war of restraint against a rising tide of foreign desire. She poured all her will into the simple, caring motion of the loofah, scrubbing away the phantom touch of the voice, cleansing them both.