Chapter 5: The Shower
The chill of the floor finally seeped into their bones. Simon stirred first, his body tensing as reality reasserted itself. He pulled out of her gently, the loss immediate and physical. Miko watched him, the broad line of his back as he sat up, the way he ran a hand through his hair and left a faint pink streak in the dark strands.
“Shit,” he muttered, looking down at himself. His jeans were bunched around his thighs, his flannel smeared with a child’s nightmare of color—Passion Pink, Electric Blue, the eggshell gray of the wall. He looked like a vandal, or a crime scene.
“You can’t go home like that,” Miko said, her voice hoarse. She pulled her robe closed, the silk sticking to the damp paint on her back.
“No kidding.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “My daughter would ask if I lost a fight with a unicorn.” The mention of his child landed between them, a small, sobering stone.
Miko stood, her legs unsteady. “Come on.”
She led him down the hall, past the accusatory masterpiece in the living room, to the bathroom. It was a room in transition, like everything else. The old floral wallpaper was half-scraped away near the tub, revealing ghostly patches of adhesive. A bare bulb in the ceiling fixture flickered, casting a strobe effect over the tiles. The air was cool, smelling of damp drywall and the sharp, clean scent of the primer Simon had used on the trim days ago—a lifetime ago.
She turned on the shower, adjusting the taps until steam began to plume, softening the edges of the room. The flickering light caught in the vapor, creating a dizzying, disorienting haze.
“I don’t have anything for you to change into,” she said, not looking at him.
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was close behind her. He’d shed his clothes, leaving them in a colorful heap on the black-and-white tile floor. She turned.
Naked, in the strange, strobing light, he seemed more real than ever. The paint was everywhere: a slash of blue across one pectoral, a palm-print of pink on his hip, smears down his powerful thighs. It was on his softening cock, a rosy tint at the base. He was a canvas of their transgression.
She stepped into the shower, the hot water shocking her skin. He followed. The space was suddenly too small, filled with the roar of water and the dense, humid air. She took the bar of soap, worked it into a lather in her hands. Without a word, she began on his chest, her palms sliding over the hard planes, scrubbing at the blue. The paint resisted, staining his skin. She worked harder, her fingers digging into the muscle. His breath hitched.
Her hands moved lower, over the tight coil of his abdomen, through the coarse, dark hair. She soaped him there, her touch businesslike at first. Then not. Her fingers closed around his cock, which began to thicken instantly under the slick, firm stroke of her hand. He was already half-hard, responsive as a live wire.
“Miko,” he warned, but it was a plea.
She looked up at him through the streaming water. Droplets clung to his lashes, beaded in his stubble. She said nothing. She sank to her knees on the porcelain, the water cascading over her shoulders.
She took him into her mouth. He was fully hard now, the head blunt and smooth against her tongue. The soap made him taste clean and sharp, but beneath it was his own essential, musky salt. She swirled her tongue around the crown, lapping at the faint pink residue still there, claiming it. She heard him groan, a sound swallowed by the shower’s roar. One of his hands came to rest on the top of her head, not forcing, just holding.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, until her nose pressed into the wiry hair at his base. She held him there, feeling him pulse, then pulled back with a wet, filthy sound. She did it again, and again, establishing a rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about consumption. She was cleaning him, devouring the evidence, making him hers in this steam-filled box. She reached between his legs, cupping his heavy balls, rolling them in her soapy hand as she sucked.
“Fuck… your mouth,” he rasped, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust.
She pulled off, breathless. “Turn around.”
He obeyed, turning to face the tile wall, his broad back and the tight curves of his ass now before her. She stood, her knees protesting. She soaped his back, her hands massaging the knotted muscles of his shoulders, following the valley of his spine. She washed the pink handprint from his hip, letting her fingers dip into the crease of his ass. She felt him clench.
Kneeling again, the water hitting her back, she spread his cheeks with both hands. He tensed, a low noise escaping him. She leaned in and licked a slow, firm stripe from his balls right up to his hole. He jerked as if shocked.
“Christ—”
She did it again, circling the tight, wrinkled pucker with the tip of her tongue, tasting soap and skin and pure, primal him. She probed, pushing gently until the muscle yielded and her tongue slipped inside, just a little. He gasped, his forearms slamming against the tiles. She fucked him with her tongue, shallow and relentless, one hand snaking around his hip to stroke his cock in time with her thrusts.
He was muttering, a stream of broken words lost in the water. “Don’t… fuck… oh god, yes…”
She stood, her body buzzing with a power so intense it felt like violence. She guided him, turning him back to face her. His eyes were wild, black with need, all pretense of patience gone. She saw the question there. She nodded.
She turned, bracing her hands high on the slick tile. She reached back, took his cock, and guided the head not to her pussy, which was throbbing and empty, but lower, to the tighter, forbidden knot of her asshole. She pressed back against him.
“Are you—”
“Do it.”
He spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly, and notched the head against her. He pushed. There was a burn, a sharp, stunning invasion that made her cry out, her forehead pressing hard into the tile. He waited, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Okay?” The word was gritted out.
“More.”
He pushed again, an inexorable, slow slide that stretched her to a breathtaking ache. He filled her completely, a different, deeper possession. When he was fully sheathed, they both froze, panting, joined in this most secret of ways.
Then he moved. He set a brutal, punishing pace from the first stroke, each thrust a jolt that echoed through her bones. The water beat down on them. The flickering light made the scene strobe—a glimpse of his strained face, her splayed hands, the relentless drive of his hips. The sound was obscene: the slap of wet skin, their choked grunts, the squelch of his cock plunging into her ass.
“Is this what you need?” he growled, one hand fisting in her wet hair, not pulling, just holding. “This filthy fuck? Taking it up the ass like a whore?”
“Yes!” she screamed, the degradation a fuel. Every crude word was a color brighter than any on her walls. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, demanding more.
“Gonna come in your ass,” he warned, his rhythm faltering, going erratic. “Gonna fill this tight little hole.”
That was all it took. The coil in her belly, wound so tight, snapped. Her orgasm was a silent, seismic shudder that clamped around him internally, a deep, pulsing vise. She clenched around his invading length, and with a ragged shout, he came. She felt the hot jet of his release inside her, a claiming that went deeper than anything before.
He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the cool tile. They stayed like that for a long time, the water finally running lukewarm, then cool.
He pulled out gently. The aftermath was a tender, aching hollow. They washed each other again, quietly now, all urgency spent. He used a clean corner of a towel to wipe the last of the paint from her back, the pink ‘E’ now just a memory in her skin.
Dressed in his damp, cleanish clothes, he stood by the front door. The house was silent except for the drip of the showerhead down the hall. The living room waited, a monument to chaos.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “To fix the trim. For real.”
“I know.”
He looked at her then, and she saw the conflict etched in every line of his face—the desire, the shame, the crushing weight of his three o’clock deadline. He touched her cheek, a calloused thumb brushing her lip, then turned and left.
The door clicked shut. Miko walked slowly back to the living room. She stood before the wall. The words ‘FUCK ME’ were dry now, permanent. The paint can of Passion Pink sat on the drop cloth, the brush beside it. Outside, the sun was high. Her husband would call tonight, expecting a report on the quiet, neutral progress of his home.
She picked up the brush. She dipped it, loaded it with pink. She didn’t paint over the words. Instead, she began to extend them, drawing a wild, looping, elegant vine that twisted around the letters, embracing them, making them part of something beautiful and strange. She painted until her arm ached, until the blank, conformist wall was no more.