Chapter 22: Reflections of Worship
The cloudy water settled around us, still and lukewarm. Petals clung to my chest, to her back, drifted in the milky haze between our legs. My heartbeat slowed from a frantic drum to a heavy, satisfied thud against her spine. She was a warm, limp weight against me, her breathing deep and even, her fingers still tracing idle patterns over the wax on my chest.
For a long time, we just sat there. The candle on the windowsill guttered, its blue flame dipping low, making the shadows in the room pulse. The steam was beginning to thin, no longer a thick fog but a softening haze that clung to the cooler surfaces.
“My legs are gonna prune,” she murmured eventually, her voice raspy and worn.
“Mine already are,” I said, my own voice rough.
She shifted, a slow, reluctant movement that sent more water over the tub’s edge. The sound of it hitting the tiles was loud in the quiet. She turned her head, her nose brushing my jaw. “We made a mess.”
“You made a mess,” I corrected softly, my arms tightening around her. “I just provided the paint.”
She giggled, a tired, sated sound. “My artist.” She looked down at herself, at the streaks of white that were now thinning, dissolving into the water. “It’s mostly gone.”
“I’ll make more later,” I promised, and the words, though spoken lightly, held a quiet vow.
She pushed herself up then, turning in the confined space. Water sloshed heavily. She faced me, her knees on either side of my hips. The bathwater now only reached the tops of her thighs. My spend was mostly washed away, but a few pearlescent traces clung to the pale skin of her lower belly. Her glasses were still slightly fogged. Her curls were a wet, dark tangle. She looked thoroughly ruined, and so beautiful it made my chest ache.
She reached out and touched my cheek. “You look wrecked.”
“You wrecked me.”
“Good.” She leaned forward and kissed me, slow and deep and tasting of lavender and us. It was a claiming of a different kind, soft and undeniable. When she pulled back, her eyes were serious behind the foggy lenses. “Help me out. I’m dizzy.”
We climbed out of the tub clumsily, water cascading from our bodies, pooling on the bathmat and the old tiles. The air was cool, raising immediate goosebumps. I grabbed a large, worn towel from the rack and wrapped it around her first, rubbing her arms through the thick cotton. She stood still, letting me, watching me with a soft, dazed expression.
“My turn,” she said, when her teeth stopped chattering. She took another towel and did the same for me, her movements careful, almost reverent, patting the droplets from the wax marks with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the searing pain of their creation.
The steam was clearing rapidly now, retreating from the mirror above the sink. Our reflections began to emerge from the haze like ghosts solidifying.
She dropped her towel. It landed on the wet floor with a soft thwap. Still wearing her glasses, she stepped close to me, her back pressing against my front. She was cool and damp. My hands settled automatically on her hips, my thumbs stroking the sharp bone there.
“Look,” she whispered.
Our eyes met in the mirror. The dim overhead light was unkind, highlighting every fleck of color, every shadow. I could see the aftermath written on our skin.
On her, the marks were love letters in a brutal alphabet. The red, fading handprint on the curve of her right ass cheek from where I’d gripped her during her climax. A small, perfect bite mark on the slope of her shoulder, the skin around it a faint purple. The scattered droplets of white wax on her outer thigh, like strange, solidified tears. A faint pink blush across her chest and neck—a combination of heat, passion, and the rough scrub of my stubble.
On me, the wax was a topography of submission. The pale, rippled splashes across my chest and stomach. The distinct circular patch on my nipple, the skin beneath an angry red. The trail down my inner thigh. In the mirror, under the flat light, they looked like what they were: brandings.
She tilted her head, exposing the long line of her neck. “Look at what you did to me,” she breathed, her voice a mix of awe and accusation.
Her hand reached back, sliding between our bodies. Her fingers found me, soft and spent, and curled around me. A jolt went through me at the touch, a spark on tired nerves. She began to stroke, slowly, languidly, her eyes locked on mine in the reflection.
I watched my face. Saw my eyes darken, my jaw tighten. Saw the faint flutter in my throat as I swallowed. Under her gentle, persistent touch, I began to stir, thickening against her palm.
“See?” she whispered, a smile touching her lips. “Never satisfied.” She sped her hand, just a little. “Now look at what I’m going to do to you.”
She turned in my arms then, a slow pivot on the damp tiles. Her body was slick against mine. She didn’t break our gaze in the mirror as she sank down, her knees meeting the plush, soaked bathmat. The cold of the floor must have bitten into her skin, but she didn’t flinch.
Her hands went to my hips, holding me steady. She leaned forward, and her breath, warm and damp, ghosted over my sensitive skin. She didn’t look down. She kept her eyes on mine in the mirror, a silent, challenging connection.
Her tongue came out, a pink point. She traced a long, slow, wet line from the very base of my balls, all the way up the underside of my shaft to the tip.
The sensation was electric, a sharp bolt of pure feeling that made my knees tremble. A harsh gasp left my lips. My hands flew to the edge of the porcelain sink behind me, gripping it for balance. The cold, hard surface was an anchor.
She did it again, slower this time, her tongue flat and warm. Her eyes gleamed behind her glasses, watching every minute reaction on my face—the parting of my lips, the dilation of my pupils, the way my nostrils flared.
“You taste like bathwater,” she said, her voice conversational, as if commenting on the weather. “And me.”
Then she took me into her mouth.
It wasn’t a deep take. She opened just enough to fit the head, her lips forming a tight, hot ring. Her cheeks hollowed instantly with a soft, sucking pull.
Shlllp.
The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet bathroom. Wet, intimate, deliberate. My grip on the sink turned vicelike. My knuckles were white islands against the chipped porcelain.
She began to move, a shallow, steady bob. Her tongue swirled around the head with each retreat. Her hand wrapped around what she couldn’t fit, stroking in time with her mouth. It was a practiced, perfect rhythm. Her other hand came up, cupping my balls, rolling them gently in her cool palm.
I was helpless, pinned by her gaze in the mirror. I watched myself—a tall, lean frame tense with pleasure, head thrown back slightly, mouth agape. I watched her—the crown of her curly head, the way her glasses slid a little down her nose with the motion, the hypnotic movement of her shoulders.
“Fuck, Pritha,” I groaned. The words were torn from me.
She pulled off with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to my tip for a second before it broke. “What?” she asked, all innocent blinking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, never looking away from the mirror. “You don’t like it?”
“You know I do,” I managed, my voice strained.
“Then stop talking and watch,” she said, her tone shifting from innocent to commanding in a heartbeat.
She took me back into her mouth, deeper this time. I could feel the back of her throat, a soft, yielding resistance. She pushed, her nose burying into my pubic hair. A low gag vibrated through her, through me. She held it, her eyes watering slightly, her gaze locked on mine in the mirror. A challenge. A sacrifice.
The sight was utterly devastating. The beautiful, obedient strain on her face. The utter vulnerability of her position. The absolute trust. It coiled the heat in my gut tighter, hotter.
She pulled back, gasping for air, a thin line of spit trailing from her lips. “I want you to watch yourself come down my throat,” she panted, her voice wrecked. “I want you to see your face when you lose it.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She dove back down, taking me as deep as she could. The tip hit that soft, tight spot at the back of her mouth. Gag. Her throat convulsed around me, a slick, muscular squeeze. She adjusted, breathing hard through her nose, and began to move in earnest.
This was not the gentle, teasing rhythm from before. This was hungry. Needy. Her head bobbed faster, her hand twisting in sync below. The sounds were a filthy, wet symphony: slurp, schlick, gag, gasp. Her free hand clawed at my thigh, her nails leaving fresh, red crescents in my skin.
My hips began to move of their own volition, small, helpless thrusts that met her downward strokes. I was fucking her face, and she was letting me, urging me on with muffled moans. The mirror showed it all—the desperate motion of my body, the way her head was forced back with each push, the tears now streaming from the corners of her eyes from the effort.
The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a pressure cooker. It started deep in my core, a molten ball of need, fed by the visual of her submission, the tight, wet heat of her mouth, the obscene sounds, the feel of her nails. My breath came in ragged pants. My legs shook.
“I’m gonna… Pritha, I’m close, I’m so close…”
She heard me. Her eyes, blurred with tears, found mine in the glass. She nodded, a tiny, frantic movement, and took me deeper still, swallowing around me.
That was it. The coil snapped.
A raw, guttural shout tore from my lungs. My head slammed back against the cabinet behind me. My hips stuttered forward, burying myself to the hilt in her willing throat. The first spurt was a volcanic eruption, hot and thick, shooting directly down into her.
She gagged violently, but she held. Her throat worked, swallowing.
I cried out again, a sound of pure, shattered release. The second rope followed, then a third. I could feel each pulse travel the length of my shaft and jet into her. My vision whited out at the edges, the mirror, her face, everything dissolving into a blur of sensation.
My body was not my own. It was a vessel for the convulsing pleasure. Another spurt, weaker this time. Then another, just a dribble. My hips jerked through the aftershocks, slow, grinding motions against her face as she milked me with soft, sucking pulls.
Slowly, the world swam back into focus. The first thing I saw was our reflection.
I was slumped against the sink cabinet, chest heaving, sweat and water beading on my skin. She was still on her knees, my spent cock slipping slowly from her swollen, red lips. Strings of saliva and cum connected us. Her cheeks were tear-streaked. Her glasses were completely fogged now. She looked utterly wrecked.
And she was smiling. A radiant, triumphant, blissful smile.
She swallowed once, a visible motion in her throat, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “See?” she croaked, her voice hoarse and ruined. “Told you.”
I couldn’t speak. My limbs were water. I slid down the cabinet until I was sitting on the damp floor, my back against the cold wood. She crawled the short distance into my lap, collapsing against my chest, heedless of the mess. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her shaking body close. I kissed the top of her head, her wet curls.
We sat there on the bathroom floor for a long time, tangled together in the cooling air. The candle finally sputtered and died, leaving us in the dim, electric light.
Her breathing evened out. She nuzzled into my neck. “You okay?” she whispered.
“Never better,” I rasped, and it was the truth. My throat was raw from shouting. Every muscle felt liquefied. The wax marks on my skin throbbed with a dull, pleasant ache. I was completely, utterly spent. And I had never felt more cared for, more seen, more loved in my life.
She tilted her head up. Her glasses were still fogged. She took them off, wiping them clumsily on a dry corner of the discarded towel. When she put them back on, her eyes were clear, soft, and sated. “You watched,” she said, a statement.
“You made me.”
“I know.” She traced a wax droplet on my collarbone. “I liked it. Your face… you looked so scared. And so into it.”
“I was. I am.” I kissed her forehead. “You’re terrifying.”
“You love it.”
“I love you,” I corrected, and the words, simple and true, hung in the air, more intimate than anything that had happened in the last hour.
She went quiet for a moment, then her stomach growled, a loud, comical sound in the silent room.
We both laughed, the tension shattering into something light and easy and domestic.
“We should order food,” she said, resting her head back on my shoulder. “I’m starving. You drained me.”
“You drained me,” I countered.
“Semantics.” She shifted, wincing slightly. “My knees hurt. And the floor is wet. And I think there’s a petal stuck to my butt.”
I looked. There was. A single, wrinkled pink rose petal was pasted to the curve of her right cheek. I plucked it off and held it up. “Souvenir.”
She took it from my fingers and flicked it away. It floated to the wet tiles. “Help me up, you big lump. I want pizza. And I want to sit on the couch in your hoodie. And I want you to not wear pants.”
“Demanding.”
“You love it,” she repeated, grinning.
I did. God, I did. I helped her stand, then pulled myself up, my body protesting every movement. We left the bathroom, a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floor leading to the bedroom. We didn’t bother with clothes. We just fell onto the cool sheets, a tangle of limbs, and lay there in the dark, listening to each other breathe.
The world outside—college, deadlines, noise—felt a million miles away. In here, there was only the smell of lavender and sex, the feel of her skin against mine, and the deep, quiet certainty that this, here, was my only real home.