Chapter 14: Shower Lesson
The heat of the apartment seemed to cling to Conzi’s skin for days, a phantom sweat. She moved through her routines—seminar, library, coffee—with a new, eerie silence. Her sharp critiques in the kitchen over fair-trade coffee were gone. She ate quickly, eyes down, and retreated to her room unless summoned. When Chris passed her in the hall, a flicker of heat would cross her face, a slight parting of her lips, before she hurried away. The melting was done. The reshaping was underway.
Nat watched it like a nature documentary. She too was quiet, orbiting Chris’s gravitational pull, sleeping in his bed, executing his small commands. Micha existed as a ghost in the periphery, a man haunting his own life, paying his share of the rent to fund his own humiliation. He worked later and later, sometimes not coming home at all, a fact Chris noted with a chuckle.
“He’s practicing,” Chris said one evening, his feet propped on the coffee table as Nat sat reading. “Being invisible. It’s a useful skill.”
Lucia, painting her nails on the other end of the couch, blew on them. “He should just move out. It’s pathetic.”
“And miss the show?” Chris grinned. “No. He stays. He’s part of the ecosystem. The bottom-feeders are important.”
The phone in his hand buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his grin shifted, becoming sharper, more personal. He typed a quick reply. “Conzi’s in the shower,” he announced, as if commenting on the weather. He stood up. “Nat. Come with me. Lucia, you can come watch. Might give you some ideas.”
Lucia’s eyes lit up. She capped her nail polish and followed without a word. Nat’s heart thudded dully in her chest, a tired drum. This was the next lesson. Not for Conzi. For her.
The bathroom was thick with steam, the air cloying with the scent of coconut body wash. The shower was running, the curtain a blurry, floral-patterned barrier. Through the translucent plastic, they could see the vague, curved silhouette of Conzi, her head tipped back under the spray.
Chris didn’t knock. He turned the lock on the bathroom door with a soft, definitive click. He pulled the shower curtain back with a rattle of plastic rings.
Conzi gasped, jerking her hands up to cover herself. Water streamed down her body, over her small breasts, her flat stomach, the blonde triangle between her legs. Her glasses were on the sink, a world away. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, blinking against the spray.
“Chris… I’m… I’m showering.”
“I can see that,” he said, his voice calm. He leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. The room was small; Nat and Lucia were crowded just inside the door, the steam coating their skin. “Don’t stop. We’re just here to talk.”
“I can’t… not with you watching.” But her protest was weak, her body already betraying her. A flush spread from her chest up her neck. Her nipples, pebbled from the water, tightened further.
“Sure you can. You’re a strong, independent woman. Wash your hair, Conzi.”
His tone left no room for debate. It was a command wrapped in mockery. Conzi stared at him, then at Nat, her expression a shattered mosaic of shame and need. Slowly, her hands came down. She turned with stiff movements, reached for the shampoo bottle, and poured a dollop into her palm. The act of soaping her hair, her arms lifting, exposing the curves of her body fully, became a lewd performance. She was trembling.
“Good girl,” Chris murmured. His eyes roamed her, a possessor admiring his property. “Now rinse.”
She obeyed, tilting her head back into the stream. Water sluiced down her back, over the swell of her ass. Chris’s gaze hardened.
“Turn around. Bend over. Put your hands on the wall.”
Conzi froze, suds still trailing down her spine. “What? No. Chris, please.”
“You heard me.” His voice lost its playful edge. It was stone. “Bend over. Now.”
A ragged sob escaped her, lost in the sound of the shower. She turned, facing the tile wall. Her hands, slick with water and soap, pressed flat against the cold ceramic. She arched her back, presenting herself, her ass toward him, her head bowed. The position was one of total surrender.
Chris didn’t undress. He simply unfastened his jeans, pushed them and his boxers down just enough. His cock, already thick and heavy, sprang free. He stepped into the shower, his clothes instantly soaking, the fabric clinging to his legs. The space was too small; his body crowded behind hers, the hot spray hitting his back and ricocheting onto Nat and Lucia.
He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and without another word, guided the blunt head to her entrance. She was tight, clenched with anxiety and steam. He pushed.
“Ah! God… wait…” Conzi cried out, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick tile.
He didn’t wait. He shoved forward, a brutal, steady invasion that stretched her open around him. Her cry choked off into a guttural groan as he seated himself fully, his hips meeting her ass. The water poured over them, mixing with the sweat already beading on his forehead.
“This,” Chris snarled, his voice raw against the drumming water, “is what happens to feminists who pretend they don’t want cock. They get it anyway. And they learn to fucking love it.”
He began to move, short, sharp thrusts that drove Conzi’s body against the wall. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. The sound was a wet, rhythmic slap, louder than the shower, a vulgar metronome. Steam billowed around them, turning the scene into a hazy, infernal tableau.
Lucia watched, transfixed, her own hand drifting to the front of her leggings, rubbing slow circles over the fabric. Her breath hitched in sync with Chris’s thrusts.
Nat was ordered to watch. She stood, water from the spray misting her glasses, seeing it all with a dreadful, analytic clarity. She saw the way Conzi’s resistance melted with each deep drive, how her pleas became moans, how her arched back softened from a posture of defeat into one of receptivity.
Chris fucked her harder, his pace increasing, each stroke a punishing claim. One hand left her hip and came down in a sharp, cracking slap on her ass. A red handprint bloomed on the pale skin. Conzi yelped, then pushed back against him, begging for more.
“Yes! Oh, fuck, yes! Harder!”
He slapped her again, and again, turning the cheek a dark, furious red. “You’re a dumb, cock-hungry slut, aren’t you?” he grunted, the words tearing from him.
“Yes! I’m a dumb slut! I’m your dumb slut!” she screamed, the admission echoing off the tiles. Her principles weren’t just broken; they were dissolving, washing down the drain with the soapy water at their feet.
Her orgasm took her violently, a seizure of pleasure that made her legs buckle. Chris held her up, pounding into her through the convulsions, milking every pulse from her. She screamed, a raw, continuous sound of annihilation and ecstasy, her forehead pressed to the wall. It wasn’t enough. He kept going, fucking her through the first wave and into a second, building it again with relentless, deep strokes.
“She’s gonna cum again,” Lucia whispered, her own fingers working faster now. “Look at her. She’s totally gone.”
Conzi was sobbing, her body wracked with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. “Please… I can’t… it’s too much…”
“You can,” Chris growled, his own control fraying. “You’ll take it. You’ll cum until I say stop.”
His thrusts became frenzied, animalistic. The shower rod trembled. Conzi’s second climax ripped through her with even greater force, a silent, open-mouthed scream before a broken, shuddering wail followed. Her body went completely limp, held upright only by his grip and the press of his body. He drove into her three more times, hard and final, and with a choked roar, emptied himself inside her, his own release jerking through him.
For a long moment, the only sound was the shower and their ragged breathing. Chris slowly pulled out. Conzi slumped, collapsing onto the wet floor of the tub, curled into a fetal position, trembling uncontrollably. The evidence of their coupling dripped from her, diluted but visible, swirling toward the drain.
Chris stepped out of the shower, soaked and triumphant. He looked at Nat, his eyes blazing. “Clean her up. Get her to bed.”
He left, a trail of water behind him. Lucia, breathless, gave Nat a look of pure envy before following him.
Nat turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening. She grabbed a towel, knelt in the tub, and began to dry Conzi’s shivering body. Conzi didn’t speak. She allowed herself to be handled, her eyes vacant, fixed on the chrome tap.
Once she was dry, Nat helped her up, wrapped a dry towel around her, and guided her to her bedroom. She dressed Conzi in soft sweats, the motions clinical. As she turned to leave, Conzi’s hand shot out, cold and damp, and caught her wrist.
Her voice was a papery whisper. “Does it ever feel… good for you? Watching?”
Nat considered the question. She remembered the sick heat in her own belly, the unwelcome pull she felt witnessing the surrender. “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” she said quietly, removing Conzi’s hand. “It only matters what he wants.”
She returned to the living room. Chris was there, in dry clothes, drinking a beer. The depravity of the last twenty minutes had vanished from his demeanor; he looked like a man after a good workout. “Is she settled?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He took a long swallow. “She’s almost perfect now. Just needs a little more polishing. Erna’s coming over tomorrow.”
The name was a shock, a splash of cold reality. Erna. The original. The catalyst.
“Why?” Nat asked, her detached mask slipping for a second.
“Because it’s time for a reunion,” Chris said, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “And because Micha’s getting a little too comfortable being absent. He needs a reminder of where this all started. He needs to see his past and his present, together.” He finished his beer, crushed the can. “And you, Nat. You’re going to help me arrange it. It’s time you learned the whole story.”