Chapter 6: A New Ritual
The water bill arrived two days later, a crisp white envelope among the junk mail. Mindy slit it open with a butter knife at the kitchen table. Marcus watched from the doorway, a towel around his neck after a solitary, guilt-ridden run. He saw her shoulders drop, not with relief, but with something heavier.
“It’s down,” she said, her voice flat. “Way down. We’re back in the green.”
She set the paper down. The numbers proved their austerity had worked. The practical excuse had evaporated. The air in the kitchen congealed. Marcus felt a weird lurch in his gut—not relief, but a sudden, panicked freefall. This was it. The strange, fever-dream parenthesis of their lives was closing. He stared at the frayed linoleum between his feet.
That evening, the apartment was too quiet. He showered alone first, a quick, cold, miserable rinse. He was in his room, pulling on a sweatshirt, when he heard the pipes groan, then the hiss of water from the bathroom. Their shower. His pulse kicked. He stood frozen, listening to the familiar sounds through the wall.
A soft knock at his door. It opened before he could answer.
Mindy stood there, already in her robe. Her hair was damp at the ends from the sink. Her face was clean of makeup, looking younger, softer. “Your turn,” she said. But she didn’t move. She held his gaze, her hazel eyes steady. “Unless you want to wait for the tank to heat up again.”
The unspoken question hung between them, thick as the steam soon would be. The bill was paid. The necessity was gone. This was a choice.
He followed her.
The bathroom was already humid, the mirror fogged. She untied her robe and let it fall to the chipped floor. She didn’t turn her back. She faced him, unapologetically naked, and stepped into the tub, pulling the curtain partly closed. An invitation. He undressed, his hands clumsy, his cock already half-hard with a traitorous, eager anticipation that shamed him. He joined her.
The water was scalding. She adjusted it, her arm brushing his. They stood side-by-side for a moment, letting the heat pound their shoulders. The normalcy was a lie they both saw through.
“I got the bill today,” she said, soaping her arms. A statement of fact.
“I know.”
“We don’t have to do this anymore.” She turned her head, looking at him. Water streamed over her lips.
He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, a minute, desperate movement. No. Don’t stop.
A small, slow breath left her. She nodded, as if he’d spoken aloud. Then she reached past him to the little shelf, her breast pressing warm and wet against his arm. Her fingers closed around his razor.
“Here,” she said, pressing the cool plastic handle into his palm. “I need you to shave me.”
His heart stalled, then hammered against his ribs. “What?”
“You heard me.” Her voice was low, devoid of its usual nurse-ly warmth. It was a command. She turned her back to the showerhead, facing him, and braced her hands on the tiles above his shoulders. She widened her stance, lifting her mound toward him. “Everything. Make it smooth.”
He knelt. The porcelain was hard under his knees. The spray hit his back, dripped from his hair onto her thighs. He took the can of shaving cream, his hands trembling so badly he fumbled the cap. He coated the soft brown hair, the white foam obscuring the shape of her. He took the razor.
“Careful,” she murmured, looking down at him. Her eyes were dark pools.
The first swipe was clumsy. He held the skin of her mons taut with his free hand, pulling it flat. He dragged the razor down. A path of smooth, pink skin appeared in the wake of the blades. He rinsed the razor under the stream. He did it again. And again. Each stroke was a meditation in terror and reverence. The territory he was uncovering was sacred, profoundly forbidden. Her breath hitched as he worked closer to her lips. He nudged her outer lips apart with his thumb, stretching the skin to shave the very edge. She gasped, a sharp intake.
He was in a trance. The world narrowed to the path of the blade, the reveal of bare flesh, the subtle tremors in her thighs. When he finished, her pussy was completely smooth, swollen-looking, and glistening wet from more than just the shower. He dropped the razor into the tub with a clatter.
His fingers, acting on a will of their own, traced the newly exposed skin. It was incredibly soft, like warm silk. He explored the slick, hot fold of her, parting her. Her clit was a hard, tiny bead, deep pink and peeking from its hood. He brushed it once with his thumb.
“Oh, god,” she choked out, her hips jerking slightly.
He stood up. He was painfully erect, his cock standing straight out, the head purple and leaking a clear, sticky string that the water washed away only for more to bead instantly. The sight of her, shaved and exposed and wanting, was the most obscene, beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Masturbate for me,” she ordered again, her voice rough. “But this time… you can touch me while you do it.”
He wrapped his fist around his shaft, a groan tearing from his throat at the contact. He began to stroke, slow at first, his eyes glued to her bare cunt. His other hand came up, hesitant, then cupped her breast. Her nipple was a tight, hard pebble against his palm. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and she arched into his touch.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Like that.”
Encouraged, his hand slid down her stomach, through the water, over the smooth plane he’d just created. His fingers found her slit, already slippery with her own arousal.
“Fuck, Marcus,” she moaned, her head falling back against the tiles.
His hand on his cock moved faster, matching the frantic rhythm of his fingers on her clit. The sounds were filthy—the wet slap of his fist, the slick swirl of his fingers on her, their mingled, ragged breathing echoing off the tiny walls. He was lost in a haze of sensation, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her face twisted in pleasure, the building, unbearable pressure in his balls.
“I’m… I’m going to come,” he warned, his voice a broken gasp.
“Do it,” she whispered, her eyes flying open to lock on his. “Come on me. Mark me.”
Her words were the final trigger. With a guttural, animal sound, he erupted. Thick, hot jets of cum shot from his pulsing cock, splashing across her stomach, her smooth mound, her inner thighs. He kept stroking through it, milking himself until he was spent, shuddering, his legs barely holding him.
He collapsed forward, his forehead resting against her shoulder, panting. She was panting too. His cum was already starting to run in milky streaks down her legs, mixing with the water. After a moment, she pushed him gently back. He stumbled out of the tub, grabbing his towel, his mind a numb, buzzing void.
He didn’t leave the hallway this time. He stood just outside the door, listening, frozen in the damp, dark air.
He heard the water shift. He heard a low, shuddering sigh. Then a wet, rhythmic sound. A slick, penetrating noise. One finger, then another. He could picture it—her fingers, his cum, working it into her.
The slick, squelching noises grew louder, more purposeful, as she rubbed his cooling seed into her bare, swollen lips before pushing two fingers deep inside her own cunt. A sharp gasp escaped her, then a low groan as she smeared what remained over her tight asshole, working a single finger in alongside the others still pumping in her pussy.