Chapter 5: Shower Soap and Cosmic Seed
The water was as hot as she could stand it. Steam bloomed in thick, rolling clouds, fogging the mirror and condensing on the ceiling. Camila stood under the punishing spray, eyes closed, letting the near-scalding needles beat against her neck and shoulders. It was a futile attempt to scour the feeling away—the phantom weight of fingers inside her, the slick, cooling evidence of her own orgasm on her thighs, the deep, persistent ache in her womb that felt less like emptiness and more like a occupied, waiting vessel.
She had scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, the acrid smell of bleach overwhelming the sweet, sexual scent for a time. But the smell was inside her now. She could taste it in the back of her throat, that metallic sweetness of his cum, even though it was Luz who had swallowed. It was like a shared infection.
She heard the bathroom door click open. No knock. A chill draft cut through the steam.
“Camila? You’re always washing things.”
The Collector’s voice was light, sing-song. She didn’t open her eyes. She just braced her hands against the slick tiles, her head hanging.
“Privacy is a concept, Collector,” she said, her voice barely a whisper over the drumming water.
“I know! A silly one.” The sound of clothing rustling, dropping to the damp bathmat. A faint, celestial glow filtered through her eyelids. “You wash dishes, you wash floors, you wash clothes… you wash yourself. It’s like a game you’re stuck in.”
She heard the shower curtain rings scrape along the rod, felt the cooler air again as he pulled it back. Then he was there, stepping into the tub with the unselfconscious grace of a creature that had never known modesty. The water hit his pale skin and beaded, running off him like he was made of sealed glass. His white hair darkened slightly, clinging to his slender neck and the sharp lines of his collarbones. His star-filled eyes regarded her with open curiosity.
He was already hard. That monstrous, veined cock stood out from his body, an absurd, fleshly contradiction to his childlike frame. It bobbed slightly with the motion of the water, the heavy balls beneath tight and full. Seeing it again, here in this mundane human space, sent a jolt through Camila that was equal parts terror and a deep, shameful hunger. Her cunt, despite her scrubbing, pulsed wetly.
He reached past her, his slender fingers closing over the bar of soap in the dish. It was a plain, creamy oatmeal soap she bought in bulk. “Can I play?”
It wasn’t a question. He began lathering the soap between his hands, creating a rich foam.
“Play,” she echoed, the word hollow.
“Mhm.” He turned those golden eyes on her dripping body. “You have so much… stuff. Hair. Curves. Milk.” His gaze fixed on her breasts, which hung heavy and full, the dark areolas wide and pebbled from the heat. The leaked milk from earlier had been washed away, but the fullness remained, a tangible pressure. “They look painful.”
Without waiting, he brought his soapy hands up and cupped her left breast. His touch was shockingly gentle, exploratory. He smoothed the lather over the massive swell, his thumbs circling the nipple, coating the stiff peak. A low moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her knees felt weak. His other hand followed suit on her right breast, weighing it, kneading the soft, giving flesh with a terrifying intimacy. The soap made his movements slick, sensual. He paid meticulous attention to her nipples, pinching them lightly, rolling them between his slippery fingers until they ached and throbbed, sending direct lines of heat to her core.
“See? You like this game,” he whispered, smiling. It was a smile of pure, amoral delight. He leaned in, his nose almost touching her skin, and sniffed. “You smell like sadness and soap. And… underneath, you still smell like me. Like my come. It’s in you, Camila. It’s not coming out.”
Tears mixed with the shower spray on her face. She said nothing. She just watched his hands, those ancient, powerful hands, playing with her body like it was a new toy.
He dropped to his knees in the tub, the water sloshing around his thighs. His face was level with her stomach, with the thatch of dark, curly hair between her legs. It was thick and bushy, grown out from years of inattention, of no one to see it. His eyes lit up.
“I love this part,” he breathed, sounding genuinely enchanted. “So messy. So furry.” He pressed his soapy hand right against her mound, his fingers sinking into the coarse, wet curls. He rubbed the soap into her pubic hair, working up a lather there, his touch firm and possessive. “It’s like a little animal nest. A warm, wet nest.”
“Please,” she heard herself say, her voice breaking.
“Please what?” He looked up, his head tilted. The water cascaded over his white hair, down his face. He looked like a fallen angel, knelt in devotion.
“Don’t… don’t talk like that.”
“But it’s true.” He pushed two fingers through the slippery nest, past the outer lips, and found her opening. She was already sopping, her arousal creating its own slickness that mixed with the soap. He slid his fingers inside her with ease, curling them. “See? The nest is all wet inside, too. It’s waiting.”
He began to soap her cunt in earnest, not with any clinical intent, but with a grotesque parody of washing. His fingers scrubbed her outer lips, slid between them, gathering her own wetness and the lather into a sloppy foam. He pushed his fingers in and out of her hole, slowly, his thumb rubbing hard circles over her clit. The combined sensation—the rough, soapy friction and the penetrating thrusts—was overwhelming, degrading, and unbearably stimulating. Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against his hand.
“You’re begging with your body, Camila,” he observed, his voice casual. He added a third finger, stretching her. “It’s saying ‘please fuck me, please fill me up again.’ Isn’t it?”
She couldn’t deny it. A raw, animal sound was building in her chest. The shame from the kitchen, the loneliness of years, the terrifying allure of his power—it all melted under the steam and the relentless, knowing touch of his fingers. She was a vessel, and she was desperate to be filled.
“Yes,” she hissed, the word torn from her. “God, yes. Please. Fuck me. Just… fuck me.”
He withdrew his fingers with a slick pop. He stood up, his erection jutting between them, the tip purple and leaking a clear strand of precum that the water washed away instantly. He took her by the hips, his grip surprisingly strong, and turned her roughly to face the wall. The tiles were cold against her front, a shocking contrast to the hot water and her feverish skin. He pressed against her back, his cock nestling in the crevice of her soapy ass.
“Lift your leg,” he said, his breath hot in her ear.
Trembling, she hooked her right foot on the edge of the tub, opening herself to him. He guided the swollen head of his cock through her soaked, soap-slicked folds, nudging against her entrance. He was so big. The memory of him stretching her, filling her in the laundry room, flooded back, a flash of pain and impossible fullness.
“You’re so greedy,” he murmured, and then he pushed.
There was no gentle easing. He slammed into her in one brutal, deep thrust. The air was punched from Camila’s lungs in a choked scream that echoed off the tiles. He sheathed himself to the hilt inside her, his pelvis grinding against her ass, his balls slapping against her thigh. She was impossibly, devastatingly full. The stretch was a burning, breathtaking agony that instantly morphed into a dark, addictive pleasure. Her cunt clenched around the massive intrusion, trying to accommodate him, her inner walls fluttering in shock.
He held there for a moment, buried inside her, letting her feel every inch, every vein. “So tight. So warm. Your little nest is hugging my cock, Camila. It likes it.”
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, and slammed home again.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The sound was obscenely loud in the tiled room—the wet, meaty impact of his flesh against hers, the slosh of water with every drive. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, fucking her with a steady, impersonal force. His hands stayed on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her open for his use. Her huge breasts were crushed against the cold wall, swaying and jiggling violently with each thrust. Milk leaked from her nipples again, thin white streaks diluting and swirling down the drain with the soapy water.
“Oh fuck… oh Dios…” Camila babbled, her forehead pressed to the tile. Each drive rocked her entire body. The pain had dissolved, replaced by a coiling, brutal pleasure that was rooted in the sheer, mind-numbing fullness. He was hitting a place deep inside her that had been untouched for decades, a place that sparked lights behind her eyes. Her cunt was a sloppy, stretched mess, the mix of soap, her arousal, and the pre-cum leaking from him creating a filthy, slick symphony.
“You’re taking it all,” he grunted, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something darker, more focused. This was the game to him: the conquest, the seeding. “Your human body is so… accepting. Like it was made for this.”
He changed his angle slightly, and the next thrust mashed directly against her cervix. She cried out, a sound of sharp pleasure-pain. He did it again, and again, a ruthless battering at the very gate of her womb. The coil inside her tightened to a breaking point. Her body, battered and used, was hurtling towards an orgasm born of pure physical overload.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” she gasped.
“Squirt for me,” he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. “Make a mess. You love making messes for me.”
The permission, the order, was the final trigger. The coil snapped. Her orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It was a seismic, uncontrollable release that wrenched a shattered scream from her throat. Her cunt clenched in violent, rippling spasms around his driving cock, and then a hot gush of fluid burst from her, not urine but the clear, copious rush of her squirting. It sprayed against the tiles, against his pounding thighs, mixing wildly with the shower stream. The sensation of release was so intense it bordered on painful, a flooding surrender that left her limp and shuddering.
Feeling her convulse around him sent him over the edge. With a sound that was half-giggle, half-groan, he buried himself as deep as he could, his hips stuttering. He came.
It was not like a human orgasm. It was an eruption. A torrent of hot, thick cum flooded her deepest channels, pulsing in seemingly endless waves. She could feel it, a tangible heat filling her, spurting against her cervix, overflowing. It was too much. As he kept pumping, seed began to leak out around the stretching girth of his cock, white rivulets coursing down her inner thighs, diluted to milky streaks by the water. He was marking her, claiming her, implanting her with his celestial essence. The near-certainty of impregnation was not a fear in that moment; it was a dark, completed fact. Her womb was being filled beyond capacity.
He stayed inside her until the last tremors subsided, both in him and in her. Then he slowly, wetly, pulled out. The sensation of emptiness was immediate and profound, a shocking void. A great deal of his cum followed, spilling out of her with a gush, swirling at her feet before disappearing down the drain.
He stepped back, breathless, his cock already softening. He looked down at her with that bright, curious gaze again, as if he’d just finished a fascinating experiment. “See? All clean. Now you’re all clean inside, too. Full of stars.”
Camila couldn’t move. She stayed braced against the wall, her leg still hooked on the tub, her body trembling with aftershocks. The water began to run cool. The steam was clearing.
From downstairs, the faint sound of the front door opening and closing echoed up. Luz’s voice, trying too hard to sound normal, called out. “I’m back! Got the milk!”
The Collector’s eyes sparkled. He turned off the shower with a flick of his wrist. The sudden silence was deafening. He grabbed a towel and began drying himself, humming.
“Better get dressed, Camila,” he said cheerfully. “Luz is home. And Amity and I have a project to finish.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and skipped out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.
Camila slowly, painfully, lowered her leg. She turned and looked at the wet, empty space where he’d been. She looked down at her body—her reddened, used breasts, the hair between her legs matted and sticky with the remnants of soap and sex and his seed. The ache inside her was no longer an ache of emptiness. It was a heavy, permanent weight.
She heard Amity’s excited voice from the hallway. “Collector! Where’d you go? I have the diagrams ready!”
“I was just helping Camila clean up!” his voice rang back, pure and bright.
Camila reached for her own towel. She wrapped it around her body, hiding the evidence. She would get dressed. She would go downstairs. She would smile. She would be the anchor. The vessel, full of stars, pretending to be empty. The water in the drain ran finally clear.