Chapter 8: Steam, Surrender, and Filth
The water was too hot. It always was. David liked it scalding, said it reminded him of the steam rooms at his club. Melissa had never changed the setting. It was easier to let the heat punish her skin than to think about why she'd stopped asking for things she wanted.
She stood under the stream with her back to the glass. Her hair was wet, plastered to her neck. The oil from earlier had washed away, but she could still feel the ghost of Victor's skin beneath her palms. The way his cock had twitched when he'd said her name. The way he'd looked at her when she told him to come—like she was something sacred and terrifying.
The door opened.
She didn't turn. Just watched his reflection slide through the fogged glass.
He stepped in behind her. The shower was large—big enough for two, big enough for three—but suddenly it felt small. The steam curled around them like smoke. His hair was dark and dripping within seconds, and his eyes were on hers in the mirror of the glass, dark and hungry.
His cock was thick against his thigh. Leaking. He'd come less than five minutes ago, but he was already hard again. Already aching.
"Hands at your sides," she said.
He obeyed. His fingers curled into fists against his legs.
She turned slowly. Let him see her.
Water ran in rivulets down her breasts, over her stomach, between her thighs. She knew what she looked like. That was never the problem.
"You came earlier," she said. "Without asking."
His jaw tightened. "You told me—"
"I told you to come for me. That's different from coming because you can't control yourself."
He swallowed. The muscles in his neck moved.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
She stepped closer. The water pounded against her back, splashing between them.
"Naughty boys don't get rewarded," she said. "They get punished."
His breathing changed. Faster. Rougher.
"What kind of punishment?"
She smiled. Reached up. Traced a line from his collarbone down his chest, her nails just barely grazing skin.
"If you want my pussy," she said, "you're going to have to prove that mouth is good for more than backtalk."
For one heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then he was on his knees.
The tile was hard beneath him—she could see the shock of cold in the way his thighs tightened—but he didn't flinch. He just looked up at her with those dark eyes, water streaming down his face, his chest heaving, and whispered, "Yes, Mommy."
The word hit her somewhere low. Somewhere she didn't examine.
She braced one hand against the wall. The other tangled in his hair.
"Show me," she said.
He leaned forward. Pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Opened his lips and dragged his tongue upward—slow, deliberate, tasting the water and the soap and the heat of her skin.
She shuddered.
He took that as permission.
His mouth found her cunt like he'd been looking for it his whole life. First kiss was soft—almost reverent—but then his tongue flattened and he licked her from ass to clit in one long, filthy stroke.
She gasped.
He did it again. Slower this time. Then again, faster, with more pressure, and fuck, his tongue was good. Better than good. He knew exactly where to press, exactly how hard, exactly when to ease up and tease her until she was shaking.
"You like that?" he mumbled against her. His breath was hot. His lips were slick.
She yanked his hair. Hard.
"Did I say you could talk?"
He didn't answer. Just buried his face deeper.
She rode him like that—hips rolling, thighs clenching around his ears, her back arching against the marble. Water dripped from the ceiling, pooled around her feet, mixed with something else, something thick and slick that wasn't just soap anymore.
When he pushed two fingers into her, she almost came right there.
He found the spot in seconds. That rough, swollen place inside her that made her vision spark. He pressed it, curled his fingers, pumped them slow while his mouth worked her clit in tight, merciless circles.
"Fuck—" She bit her lip. Hard enough to hurt. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't.
She broke two minutes later.
Her orgasm hit like a fist—sudden, brutal, spreading through her like wildfire. She came with a sound she barely recognized, her cunt clamping down on his fingers, her whole body convulsing. And then liquid poured out of her—hot and clear and endless—spilling over his mouth, his chin, his chest.
Victor didn't pull away. He lapped it up like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted to drink.
When she finally pushed him back, he was gasping, his face wet with more than just water. His eyes were glassy. His lips were parted. His cock was so hard it looked painful, twitching against his stomach, the head a deep, angry purple.
She stepped back. Let him breathe.
Then she grabbed his hair again.
"Up," she said.
He stood on shaking legs.
She turned him around. Pushed him against the glass. His palms hit the wall with a slap, and he was bent over, ass out, water running down the dip of his spine.
"Don't move," she said.
He didn't.
She knelt behind him.
The tile bit into her knees, but she barely noticed. Her attention was on him—on the curve of his back, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his legs were trembling. He was so exposed like this. So vulnerable. The most powerful person in any room, and here he was, bent over and waiting for her to do whatever she wanted.
She leaned in. Dragged her tongue from his balls to his asshole in one slow, filthy stripe.
He jerked. Gasped.
"No one's ever—"
"Shut up."
She circled his asshole with her tongue. Light at first. Then harder. Then she pressed inside, just the tip, and he made a sound that was half moan and half sob.
Her hand wrapped around his cock. Started pumping. Slow. Steady.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck, Melissa—"
She didn't stop. Her tongue pushed deeper while her hand worked him faster. She could feel him swelling, feel the pulse in his cock matching the wild beat of his heart, feel the way he was fighting to hold still.
"I can't—" His voice cracked. His palms slid against the glass. "Please. Please, I can't, no one's ever—"
She pulled her mouth away. Not her hand. Never her hand.
"You can't what?"
"Come. I can't. I need to. Please."
She stroked him. Slow. Deliberate. Her thumb swiped over the head, spreading precum down his shaft.
"You want to come?"
"Yes." A sob. A real one. "Yes, please, please, Melissa—"
"When I say."
"I can't—"
She squeezed. Just enough. Just at the base of his cock.
He froze.
"I said when I say."
His whole body was shaking. Sweat and water ran down his back. His head hung between his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was broken.
"Please."
She smiled. She couldn't help it.
She let go of his cock. Stood up. Leaned over him, her lips at his ear, her breasts pressed to his back.
"Now you can come, baby," she whispered. "But not until I say so."
She wrapped her hand around him again.
And she started to move.