Chapter 7: The Sixth Shower
The sound from the bathroom stopped. The water shut off with a final, metallic groan from the pipes.
Marcus stood in the darkened hallway, towel clutched in his fist, skin pebbled with cold. The silence felt louder than her moans had been. The door opened, spilling a wedge of yellow light and a cloud of dense, floral-scented steam. Mindy stepped out, wrapped in her robe, her hair turbaned in a smaller towel. She didn’t look surprised to see him there. Her face was flushed, her eyes overly bright.
She walked past him without a word, her bare feet whispering on the floorboards. He caught the clean, soapy smell of her, and underneath it, something muskier, something irrevocably changed.
The next evening, the silence in the apartment had a physical weight. They ate leftover meatloaf at the kitchen table, the clink of forks against plates the only conversation. The water bill, now a pointless talisman, sat pinned under a magnet on the fridge.
“Long day at the clinic,” she finally said, pushing her plate away. “Mrs. Henderson’s catheter blew. It was a mess.”
He nodded, his mouth full. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say about his day at the warehouse.
She looked at him, her gaze steady. “I’m going to take a shower.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement. But it hung there, a question mark in the steam of the green beans. He wiped his mouth. His heart was doing that stupid, frantic thing again. He just nodded.
He waited five minutes. He heard the water start. He counted to sixty, each second a lifetime. Then he walked down the hall. The bathroom door was unlocked. He pushed it open.
The room was a sauna, the mirror a fogged grey slate. The shower curtain was drawn, but her silhouette was visible through the milky plastic—the curve of her head, the slope of her shoulders, the swell of her ass. He undressed quickly, the humid air sticking to his skin. He pulled the curtain back.
She had her back to him, head tilted under the spray. Water sluiced down the defined muscles of her back, over the twin dimples at the base of her spine, and down the full, round curves of her buttocks. She didn’t turn.
“Wash me,” she said, her voice barely audible over the water.
He picked up the bar of soap. It was slippery. He started at her shoulders, working the lather over her skin in slow, broad circles. His hands moved down her spine, following the subtle ridges of her vertebrae. He soaped the small of her back, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles there. She sighed, a low sound of relief.
His hands slid lower, over the crest of her hips, and onto her ass. He washed each cheek thoroughly, kneading the firm flesh, feeling it give and then spring back. His fingers strayed into the cleft. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before spreading the soapy lather there, over the hidden seam of her. He rubbed gently, a slow, deliberate circle over her anus. She shuddered, a full-body ripple, and braced her hands against the tiles.
“Turn around,” he heard himself say. His voice was thick.
She turned slowly. Water beaded on her eyelashes. Her breasts were right in front of his face, full and heavy, her nipples dark and tightly puckered from the heat. He soaped them next, cupping their weight, circling the stiff peaks with his thumbs until she let out a sharp gasp and arched into his touch.
He dropped the soap. It landed with a soft thud at their feet. He sank to his knees on the hard porcelain. The water beat down on his head and shoulders. He looked up at her, then at the smooth, hairless mound he had shaved just days before. It glistened, pink and exposed.
He reached for the soap again, lathered his hands, and placed them on her. He washed her with a reverence that felt like sacrilege, spreading the suds over the neat, swollen lips of her pussy. His fingers explored, parting her, finding the heat and slickness within.
“Clean me inside,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Really clean me.”
He slid two fingers into her cunt. She was unbelievably tight, hot, and silken. He pumped them slowly, in and out, watching her face. Her lips parted, her eyes glazed. He curled his fingers, seeking a spot he’d only read about. When he found it, a rough, textured patch, she cried out, her hand flying to his hair, gripping it hard.
“Fuck, Marcus… right there.”
He worked his fingers, scissoring them, stretching her, the wet, sucking sounds obscene and thrilling. Her hips began to roll against his hand, fucking herself on his fingers. He added a third, and she moaned, a long, low sound of pure want.
Suddenly, she pulled his hand away. She was breathing hard. “My turn.”
She pushed him back until he was sitting on the narrow ledge of the tub, the shower spray hitting his chest. She picked up the soap. Her movements were deliberate, possessive. She washed his chest, his flat stomach, the defined lines of his hips. She lathered his thighs, her hands strong from her work, sliding perilously close to his balls. He was achingly hard, his cock standing thick and straight, the head leaking a steady drip.
She knelt between his legs, her knees on the hard tub floor. She took his cock in both her soapy hands.
“Look at you,” she murmured, almost to herself. She stroked him from root to tip, spreading the lather, her thumbs swirling over the sensitive slit. He threw his head back with a groan, his hands gripping the tub edge. “So hard for me. My good boy.”
She worked him over thoroughly, washing every inch, her hands moving with a clinical efficiency that somehow made it ten times more erotic. She fondled his heavy balls, soaped the perineum beneath, her touch both intimate and devastating.
Then she stopped. She rinsed her hands under the spray and looked up at him, her eyes dark with intent. “Now jerk off for me. Let me see you come.”
Her command sent a jolt of pure lightning through him. He wrapped his fist around his slick, soap-slicked shaft. He began to stroke, his eyes locked on hers. His movements were clumsy, frantic. She watched, her gaze dropping to watch his hand work, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“That’s it,” she coaxed, her voice a husky whisper. “Show me. Give it to me.”
The pressure built, coiling unbearably tight in his gut. His breaths came in ragged pants. “Mindy… I’m gonna…”
“Do it. Now.”
With a strangled cry, his body convulsed. Thick, white ropes of cum shot from him, pulsing out in violent jets. He kept stroking, milking himself dry. She held her hands up, palms cupped together, and caught every hot, wet spurt. It pooled in her hands, warm and viscous.
The world narrowed to that single, shocking image: his mother, kneeling naked before him, holding his ejaculate in her palms. The water rinsed the soap from his spent cock. He sat there, trembling, utterly hollowed out.
Slowly, deliberately, she brought her cupped hands to her face. She held his gaze, unwavering, as she stuck out her tongue and licked a long, slow stripe through the mess in her palms. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. A small, pleased sound vibrated in her throat. She licked her hands clean, sucking her fingers, gathering every last drop. When she was done, she opened her eyes. They were clear, frighteningly sober.
She stood up on unsteady legs. She turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening.
She stepped out of the tub, grabbing her towel. She didn’t look at him as she dried her hands.
“We should… we should get the groceries tomorrow,” she said, her voice strangely normal, conversational, as if she hadn’t just consumed his seed. “We’re out of milk.”
She left the bathroom, leaving him sitting in the tub, surrounded by steam and the lingering, salt-and-musk scent of what they had done. The graffiti on the floor—MARCUS 4 EVER—seemed to glow in the damp. A promise, or a sentence. He couldn't tell which anymore.