Chapter 4: A Very Special Shower
The sticky syrup on his fingers was the only reminder of breakfast. Derek stared at it, the gloss clinging to his skin, as Brenda cleared the plate with a clatter.
“Oh, you’re a mess,” she cooed, plucking the plate from his hands. Her eyes weren’t on the plate. They were on his mouth, his chin, the visible outline of his interest straining against his jeans. “A sticky, handsome mess. Can’t have my big man going around all icky.”
She took his hand, licking the syrup from his thumb with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue. The action was so bold, so casual, it short-circuited his brain. Then she pulled him to his feet.
“C’mon. Mommy’s gonna get you cleaned up.”
He didn’t resist. The thought of his lonely, cold dorm shower flashed and then evaporated. She led him by the hand down the hallway, past the glittering chaos of the living room, to the master suite he hadn’t entered since he’d been home. The door was ajar.
Her bedroom smelled like a perfume counter and warm, slept-in sheets. It was dominated by a huge, unmade bed with a pink satin comforter. But she bypassed it, leading him straight into the adjoining bathroom.
It was a steam-filled sanctuary. Pastel pink tiles, gold fixtures, the humid air thick with lavender and vanilla. The mirrors were already fogged. In the center, a massive walk-in shower of glass brick gleamed, and beside it, a huge Jacuzzi tub bubbled ominously.
Brenda went to the shower, twisting the knobs. A torrent of water roared to life, filling the enclosure with a fine, hot mist. Then she turned to him.
With a smile that was all teeth and glossy lips, she untied the sash of her peach robe. It slipped from her shoulders and puddled on the plush pink rug at her feet. There was no performance this time, no coy hesitation. She just stood there, letting him look.
The morning light from the bathroom window cut through the steam, painting her augmented curves in soft focus. The enormous, impossibly round breasts. The cinched waist that flared out into the dramatic, shelf-like sweep of her augmented rear. The surgical scars, pale and neat, were the only hints of the artifice. She looked like a doll, inflated to obscene, mesmerizing proportions.
“Your turn,” she breathed, stepping close. Her fingers went to the hem of his t-shirt.
Derek raised his arms, docile as a child. She lifted the shirt over his head, her nails lightly scraping his skin. Then her hands went to the button of his jeans. He sucked in a breath as she popped it open, tugged the zipper down. She pushed everything—jeans, boxers—down his hips in one smooth motion, kneeling briefly to help him step out of the tangled fabric.
He stood naked before her, exposed and hard. The warm, damp air kissed his skin.
“There we go,” she murmured, her eyes wide and worshipful. She reached out, not touching him yet, just letting her hand hover near his hip. “All ready for your wash.”
She took his hand again and guided him into the shower. The water was perfection—hot, needling, cascading from a rainfall head. It soaked his hair immediately, plastering it to his forehead. Brenda stepped in behind him, her body a soft, overwhelming pressure against his back.
He heard the squirt of body wash, then the slick, slippery sound of her hands lathering. Her palms, slick and warm, landed on his shoulders.
She started there, washing his back with slow, circular motions. Her breasts pressed against his spine, two firm, heated pillows. Her hands moved down, over the contours of his shoulders, the dip of his lower back. She took her time. Every inch was attended to with a focused, humming reverence.
Then her soapy hands slid around his hips, to his stomach.
Derek let his head fall back against her, his glasses spattering with water. He closed his eyes. Her fingers traced the faint lines of his abdomen, then drifted lower, through the coarse hair, until her hand finally, slowly, closed around him.
A jolt, electric and white-hot, shot through him.
“Oops,” she giggled, her breath hot in his ear. She began to stroke him, the glide effortless with the soap. “Someone’s happy to see me. That’s my little buddy. All clean and perky.”
Her other hand slid up his chest, pinching a nipple gently. She was everywhere, a slick, warm cage of sensation. The water pounded down on them. The steam thickened. Her strokes were expert, languid, utterly confident.
“I missed this,” she whispered, her inflated lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Taking care of you. Making sure my boy is all nice and clean. You’ll let me take care of you, right? Always?”
“Yeah,” he grunted, the word torn from him. His own hands came up, grabbing at her thighs behind him, his fingers sinking into the impossibly soft, full flesh of her augmented hips. He kneaded them, pulling her tighter against him.
“Good boy,” she purred. She turned him then, gently, within the circle of her arms until they were face-to-face. Water streamed over both of them. Her makeup was running in faint, dark tracks, but she just smiled, dopey and blissful.
She pressed her body against his, skin to skin now. The hard roundness of her breasts flattened against his chest. The soap made everything slide, a frantic, wet friction. She rocked her hips, letting the soft, heavy mound of her lower stomach rub against him.
He couldn’t take it anymore. His hands flew to her ass, gripping two enormous handfuls, lifting her slightly onto her toes. She gasped, a sharp, delighted sound, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He kissed her.
It was messy, fueled by steam and soap and a greed that surprised him. He tasted the plasticky vanilla of her lip gloss, the mint of her toothpaste. Her tongue met his, eager and unskilled. She moaned into his mouth, a high, whining sound, and ground herself against him.
One of his hands left her ass to grope at her breast, his fingers finding a hard nipple, pinching and rolling it. She broke the kiss, throwing her head back with a cry that echoed off the tiles.
“Derek! Oh, baby, yes…”
He buried his face in the slick valley between her breasts, breathing her in, drowning in the feel of her. His mind was empty of everything—college, the future, the wrongness that should have been screaming at him. There was only this heat, this water, this soft, monstrous, willing body he was kneading like dough.
She was panting, her breath coming in hiccupy giggles. “See? Isn’t this better than being away? Isn’t Mommy better?”
He didn’t answer with words. He just shoved her back gently, until her shoulders met the cool, wet tile. He kissed her again, harder, one hand still mauling her breast, the other sliding between her legs. She was slick there too, but not from soap. She cried out, her legs buckling, and he held her up, his body pinning hers to the wall as the water crashed over them.
The world shrank to the size of the shower stall. To the sound of her desperate moans and the slap of wet skin. To the overwhelming, simple truth that he was here, he was hard, and she was his.
Eventually, the water began to cool. Their breathing slowed. Brenda nuzzled into his neck, placing tiny, suckling kisses there.
“We should get out,” she mumbled, her voice drowsy with satisfaction. “Prune city.”
He released her, his arms aching. She turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and their ragged breaths.
She stepped out first, grabbing a huge, fluffy pink towel. She wrapped it around herself, then got another. This one she used to carefully dry him, patting his hair, smoothing it over his shoulders, his chest, between his legs—a tender, intimate drying that felt more possessive than the sex act itself.
He stood there, letting her. He looked at their reflection in the fogged mirror: two blurred, pink shapes in a cloud of steam.
She finished and tossed the towel aside. She stood on her toes and kissed his jaw. “Go play some video games or something, handsome. I’ve got to do my hair. A girl’s gotta look pretty for her man.”
She said it so naturally. Her man. Derek just nodded, a dumb, complacent smile on his face. He pulled on his boxers and jeans from the floor, not bothering with the shirt. He left the bathroom, the cool air of the bedroom raising goosebumps on his damp skin.
Behind him, he heard the hum of a hairdryer kick on. He wandered back toward the living room, toward the video games he hadn’t touched in a year. The idea of playing them felt suddenly, perfectly appealing. The whole day stretched ahead, warm and empty and full of her.
He settled on the couch, the same couch he’d slept on, and picked up a controller. It felt familiar and strange in his hands. From down the hall, the muffled drone of the hairdryer was a constant, soothing sound, like the hum of a hive.
He was home.