Chapter 2: 'Open wider, piss-slut' Enid growls, grinding her dripping cunt against Willow's face as the yellow torrent hits the back of her throat - the sound of the shower drowns out Willow's choked gulps but not the way her tongue instinctively flicks out to catch every last salty drop from Enid's trembling lips.
The headache returned three days later, a slow creep at the base of her skull during Botanicals. Willow kept her head down, tracing the vein patterns on a Monstera leaf, trying to breathe through the gathering pressure. Enid’s knee knocked against hers under the lab table. A question.
When the bell rang, Enid shouldered both their bags. “Showers,” she said, her voice low, leaving no room for argument. “Now.”
The athletic block showers were usually abandoned this time of afternoon, a stark, echoing cavern of white tile and rusting pipes. The air hung heavy with the ghost of chlorine and damp concrete. Distant, echoing laughter from the pool two corridors away.
Enid locked the main door to the shower room with a sharp, decisive click. The sound echoed. She turned, her eyes dark in the low, utilitarian light.
“Here?” Willow’s voice was a whisper, swallowed by the space.
“More practical.” Enid’s tone was matter-of-fact. She was already kicking off her loafers, peeling her socks away. “No mess. Easy cleanup.”
Willow stood frozen, the clinical setting amplifying her vulnerability. This wasn’t their quiet, lamplit dorm. This was exposed. Enid didn’t wait. She stepped under one of the central showerheads and turned the knob. A hiss, then a thunderous cascade of hot water erupted, instantly soaking her uniform blouse, plastering it to her skin. Steam began to billow, curling into the cooler air.
“Willow. Come here.”
The command cut through the roar of the water. Willow moved as if pulled by a string. She stepped into the spray, fully clothed, the hot water shocking against her skin. Her khakis and cotton shirt grew leaden, clinging.
Enid’s hands were on her immediately, pushing her back until her shoulders hit the slick, cold tiles. The contrast was brutal: scalding water on her front, icy ceramic biting through her soaked shirt at her back. Enid crowded into her space, a hot, determined pressure. Water streamed down both their faces.
“You need it,” Enid said, her mouth close to Willow’s ear, her voice a raw vibration under the shower’s din. “I can see it in your eyes. That tight, pained look. So open up.”
Her fingers, strong and sure, tangled in Willow’s sopping hair and wrenched her head back against the wall. It wasn’t painful, but it was utterly controlling. Willow gasped, her mouth falling open involuntarily, catching streamlets of shower water.
Enid’s free hand worked at the button of her own soaked trousers, then shoved them down her hips just enough. She pressed her body flush against Willow’s, her thigh slotting between Willow’s legs, a firm, insistent pressure. The rough texture of her wet uniform against the sensitive skin of Willow’s inner thighs made her jolt.
“Watch me,” Enid growled, her eyes locked on Willow’s. She guided Willow’s head down, not to her belly, but lower. “Don’t you fucking close your eyes.”
Willow obeyed, her gaze blurry with water and steam. Enid shifted, bracing one hand against the tile above Willow’s head, arching her back. The first hot spatter hit Willow’s cheek, a shocking, intimate brand. Then the stream, a powerful, golden arc in the steamy air, aimed directly into her open, waiting mouth.
It was different from the quiet bathroom. Primal. The roar of the shower drowned out all delicate sounds, leaving only the visceral reality of it. The bitter, salty taste flooded her senses, warm and alive against her tongue. It mixed with the shower water, a confusing, elemental cocktail. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working, her hands coming up to clutch at Enid’s dripping hips, fingernails digging into the wet skin just above the bunched fabric of her trousers.
Enid moaned, a rough, ragged sound that had nothing to do with relief and everything to do with power. “That’s it. Take it all. Drink it down, you thirsty fucking thing.”
The words, filthy and direct, sent a lightning bolt of pure, shameful heat straight to Willow’s core. The ache in her head was dissolving, yes, but it was being replaced by a different, deeper throb between her own legs. She drank, lapping greedily, her tongue seeking the source itself, pressing against Enid’s swollen flesh, not just passively receiving but actively taking. The taste of skin and salt and something uniquely, musky Enid was overpowering.
Enid’s hips jerked, fucking into Willow’s face. “Use your tongue. Get it all.”
Willow obeyed, her mind blank, reduced to sensation. The hot water pounded her back. The bitter liquid filled her mouth. Enid’s fingers were a violent comfort in her hair, pulling just shy of pain. The rough tile scraped her shoulders through the fabric. It was a sensory overload that stripped everything away—the shame, the fear, the complexity—leaving only a raw, desperate need that was being met with brutal generosity.
The stream slowed, became a trickle. Willow chased it with her lips and tongue, cleanly, until there was nothing left but the taste and the thrumming water.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, Enid panting, her forehead resting on the tile, Willow’s face still buried in the heat of her. The water began to cool.
Slowly, Enid released her death-grip on Willow’s hair. Her hand came down, trembling slightly, and stroked the wet mess of it with something like apology. She gently pulled Willow upright.
Willow slumped against the wall, water and spent fluid dripping from her chin. Her body felt boneless, sated, the medical need extinguished and replaced by a trembling, full-body ache of a different kind. Her soaked clothes were a second skin, heavy and cold.
Enid looked at her—really looked. At her wrecked mouth, her dazed eyes. A slow, possessive smile curved her lips. She leaned in, her lips brushing Willow’s ear. “Feel better?”
Willow could only nod, her cheek rubbing against Enid’s.
“Good.” Enid turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead and their ragged breathing. She stepped back, pulling her trousers up. “Get out of those wet things. We’ll wring them out in the sink.”
As Willow fumbled with her own buttons, fingers numb, Enid watched. The steam was clearing, the stark reality of the grout-lined shower stalls returning. But something had solidified in the steam, something unbreakable and darkly sweet.
Enid tossed her a wad of paper towels. “Here. For your face.”
Willow caught them. The rough texture on her skin was grounding. “Others…,” she managed, her voice hoarse. “What if others… need to help? Like this?”
Enid’s eyes flashed, a sudden, fierce possession tightening her features. She stepped close again, crowding Willow back against the lockers. Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. “They can bring you a fucking cup. This?” She gestured between their bodies, still close enough to feel each other’s heat. “This is mine. You understand?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a claim.
Willow, still buzzing with the aftermath, the relief, the shocking arousal, met her gaze. The last vestige of shame evaporated, burned away in the steam. She understood perfectly. She nodded once, a submission that felt like victory.
Enid’s smile returned, softer now. She kissed Willow’s forehead, a chaste, surprising contrast to what had just transpired. “Then we’re good. Now get changed. You’ll catch a cold.”
Outside, the distant laughter from the pool echoed, a world away. In the dripping quiet of the shower room, a new pact was sealed, not in whispers, but in steam, and salt, and the relentless, echoing drip of water.