Chapter 10: Shower idea
The shower was still running, a warm mist filling the small room. Eva nudged the tap with her foot, adjusting the temperature.
“Okay,” she said, stepping into the tub. “Watch.”
She didn’t lie down the normal way. Instead, she sat first, then slowly leaned back, sliding her torso down the sloped end of the tub until her head and shoulders were on the floor, pressed against the wall. Her legs, she drew up, planting her feet flat against the vertical tiled wall. It was an awkward, vulnerable geometry. Her hips were angled up, her lower back a bridge over the drain. The full length of her didn’t fit; she had to bend her knees a bit, which opened her up further.
And there it was, displayed between the firm brackets of her hip bones: her stomach. It looked different like this, without the support of the floor beneath her spine. The muscles, so defined when she was braced, were relaxed, the flesh soft and yielding. It was a landscape of gentle curves and deep shadows, painted now with the splotched watercolors of his recent fists. The water from the showerhead fell across her shins, her knees, pattering onto the pale, vulnerable plane of her belly. It pooled in her navel before running in rivulets down her sides.
She shivered. “See?” she called over the water’s hiss. “I can’t really tense like this. It’s all… soft.”
He understood. He understood completely. The fantasy he’d replayed a thousand times in his head—the one he thought was impossible—wasn't about fighting a resistant core. It was about this. About weight meeting softness. About total surrender.
The steam clung to him as he stepped into the tub again, over her, his feet straddling her hips. The textured floor felt secure under his soles. He looked down at her. She was watching him, her breath a little quick, her hands resting palms-up on her thighs. An offering.
“Just… walk on,” she said, her voice softer now, almost lost in the spray. “I’ve got you.”
He placed his right foot on the bed of her stomach. The feeling was immediate and electric. The warmth of her skin, the shocking give beneath his sole. It wasn’t flat resistance; it was a slow, deep compression. He felt the shape of his foot sink into her, molding her flesh.
A sharp gasp escaped her, her head pressing back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut for a second. Then they flew open, dark and insistent. “More. Put your weight.”
He leaned in, transferring his weight from his left foot to his right. He felt her organs shift, a profound, internal displacement. His entire foot disappeared into the softness of her abdomen, up to the ankle. He was standing on her. Actually standing on her.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word torn from him.
The sensation was unlike anything. It was power, but it was also intimacy. It was her complete trust given physical form. The water pounded on his back, streaming down his legs and over her, making her skin slick and shining. Her breasts, rising and falling with her shallow, controlled breaths, glistened.
“Walk,” she urged, a thread of strain in her voice. “Just… shift. Feel it.”
He took a tiny, tentative step with his left foot, placing it higher, just below her sternum. He rocked his weight between his feet, a slow, deliberate march in place on the giving terrain of her body. Each step was a deep, sinking pressure. He could hear her breathing—shallow, controlled puffs—and the wet, squelching sound of his feet on her soaked skin.
“You’re so light,” she lied, her voice tight. “Feels… good.”
He knew it wasn’t entirely true. He was 83 kilos of concentrated force on her unprotected middle. But the good was mixed in there, twisted with the ache. He saw it in the flush on her chest, in the way her fingers curled against her thighs.
He found a rhythm, a slow, methodical shifting of weight from one foot to the other, walking in place on the canvas of her belly. It was mesmerizing. The water, the steam, the shocking softness underfoot, the sheer physics of it.
“Look at you,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
Her laugh was a pained huff. “Can’t… see much… from here. But I can feel it.”
He stopped, both feet planted, bearing his full weight. He looked down the length of her body, at her face strained with effort and something like ecstasy. He leaned over, bracing a hand on the tiled wall above her head, lowering his face to hers. The water cascaded around them like a curtain.
“Thank you,” he said, the words fierce, urgent.
She lifted a trembling hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his water-blurred skin. “Any time.”
He kissed her then, a salty, steamy, desperate kiss. And as their mouths moved together, he shifted his weight again, a slow, deep roll of his foot right over the center of her. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching under his, pushing up into the pressure even as it forced the air from her lungs.
They stayed like that for a long time, locked in the pounding, private rain, until the hot water ran out and the spray turned cold, shocking them back into the world.