Chapter 17: Bath Time
The shower was a sanctuary of peeling paint and rust stains, a tiny tile closet Harry had never appreciated until now. He needed five minutes. Just five minutes of steam and solitude, of water that wasn’t immediately fouled by immortal fluids, of silence that wasn’t filled with hungry breaths and pleading whines. He locked the door—a flimsy hook-and-eye latch that felt suddenly, profoundly inadequate.
The water hissed, then spat, then finally settled into a weak, lukewarm stream. He stepped under it, letting it drum against his scalp, washing the scent of them from his skin. For sixty seconds, it was bliss.
Then the hook rattled.
A sharp snap of metal, and the door swung inward, smacking against the wall. Steam billowed out into the apartment, and three silhouettes filled the doorway, backlit by the dull living room light.
“Master,” Demona cooed, her voice cutting through the spray. “You didn’t call us to wash you.”
“We’re your bitches,” Belphina added, pushing past her sister. “That’s our job.”
Kaia just stared, her eyes already glazing over with a familiar, dumb hunger. The shower stall was a cramped rectangle, barely containing Harry alone. They pressed in anyway.
The world became a crush of hot, wet skin. Demona slid in behind him, her immense breasts, slick and heavy, mashing against his back. Her arms snaked around his waist, one hand sliding down to cradle his softness, the other splaying across his chest to pull him tighter against her. “See?” she murmured into his shoulder, her lips finding his ear. “You’re all tense. Let us help.”
Belphina squeezed in front, facing him, her blonde hair plastering to her cheeks instantly. The space was so tight her nipples brushed his stomach. She grinned, a flash of white in the steam, and dropped to her knees with a sloshing splash. The water cascaded over her head, down the deep valley of her cleavage, as she nuzzled into his groin.
“No, wait—” Harry began, but his words were swallowed by a gasp.
Under the falling water, Belphina’s mouth was a hot, shocking contrast. She didn’t tease. She took him all at once, her throat working, her nose pressed into his pelvis. The sensation was muffled, amplified, wrong—the water flooding over her face, bubbling from her nostrils as she breathed through them, her cheeks hollowing with obscene force. Her eyes rolled back, pure ecstasy.
Then Demona began to move behind him. She reached for a sliver of soap, working it between her palms before applying it to her own chest. She coated her breasts in thick, white lather, then pressed them back against him, sliding them up and down his spine in slow, grinding circles. The soap was cheap and floral, the smell clashing violently with her own dark, spicy musk. Her nipples, hard as stones, dragged across his vertebrae.
“Clean,” she purred, her hips making small, insistent pushes against his buttocks. “We’ll get you so clean, Master.”
Harry braced his hands against the slick tiles, his head bowed under the shower stream. He was trapped, a pillar of flesh in a warm, wet prison. Belphina was gagging rhythmically now, her throat convulsing around him, one hand cupping his balls underwater, squeezing in time with her gulps. The sounds were grotesque: wet, choking glugs, sputtering exhales, the constant slap of water on skin.
Kaia, unable to fit in the stall, stuck her head through the curtain. She watched, her mouth hanging open, her tongue lolling. She whimpered, a high, frantic sound. Then she ducked down, disappearing from view.
A new pressure, hot and pointed, pressed against the cleft of his ass.
“Kaia, no—” Harry grunted, trying to straighten, but Demona held him fast.
“Shhh,” Demona whispered, biting his shoulder. “She’s helping. She’s cleaning too. She’s a good pet.”
Kaia’s tongue was broad and rough, like a cat’s. It probed, insistent, against his pucker, circling again and again before pressing inward with shocking strength. The sensation—violating, intimate, washing over him in the midst of the other two assaults—made his knees buckle. Demona held him up.
The shower was a cacophony of need. The slap of soapy flesh. The gurgling, underwater sucking. The ragged, wet laps from below. The steam thickened with their panting, smelling of sex and soap and their own unique, cloying sweetness. Their voices rose in a disjointed chorus.
“Taste so good, Master, even like this,” Belphina gurgled, pulling off for a second, water spraying from her lips. A strand of saliva and pre-come connected her mouth to him, swirling down the drain. She dove back down, her hands clawing at his thighs.
“Mine,” Demona growled against his neck, her soapy tits squelching as she rubbed. “My back. My Master. You take such good care of us, we take care of you.”
Kaia just worked, silent and diligent, her tongue delving deeper, her nose pressed firmly against his perineum. Her hands gripped his hips from outside the curtain, her fingers leaving deep, possessive marks.
Harry’s resistance, always a thin veneer, shattered. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his throat. His hips jerked forward into Belphina’s waiting throat, and back against Demona’s grinding and Kaia’s relentless tongue. The pleasure was too convoluted, too layered, too much. It wasn’t about climax; it was about being consumed, atom by atom, in this tiny, steaming box.
He came violently, his seed pumping in hot pulses down Belphina’s throat. She drank greedily, noisily, her Adam's apple bobbing, her choked moans vibrating through him. As he spasmed, Kaia’s tongue fucked into him deeper, milking the last shocks from him, while Demona bit down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, her teeth breaking the skin in a sharp, claiming pain.
The water ran cold.
They didn’t move. Belphina stayed on her knees, swallowing every drop, then lapping clean what the shower hadn’t washed away. Demona rested her forehead between his shoulder blades, her breath heaving. Kaia finally withdrew, but remained crouched outside, her face a mask of steam and devotion.
Harry stood, trembling, supported by demons. The cold water shocked his skin, raising goosebumps. He felt hollowed out, scoured clean in every possible sense.
Belphina finally stood, wobbly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked dazed, water dripping from her chin. “Clean,” she whispered, and let out a hiccup.
Demona reached past him and turned the faucet off. The sudden silence was broken only by their dripping bodies and ragged breathing. She nuzzled the bite mark on his neck. “Mine,” she murmured again, but it sounded less like a boast and more like a fact.
Kaia pushed the curtain fully open. She had a threadbare towel in her hands. She didn’t offer it. She began to pat him dry with clumsy, reverent strokes, starting with his chest, working down with an utter lack of shame or ceremony. When she got to his hips, she leaned in and gave his spent cock a gentle, apologetic lick, as if correcting a spot she missed.
Harry didn’t stop her. He just watched, his mind a numb, quiet blank. He stepped out of the tub, and they followed, a procession of dripping wet monsters in a dripping wet bathroom. They used the other towels on themselves, but poorly, leaving damp footprints on the fraying linoleum.
Back in the living room, the cleaning from the day before seemed like a distant dream. The pine scent was gone, replaced by the new, wet-dog and sex aroma of their shower.
Demona and Belphina collapsed onto the floor near the couch, limbs entwined, already dozing, their bodies gleaming with moisture. Kaia, however, didn’t rest. She found the feather duster again. She also found one of Harry’s discarded socks. She carried both in her mouth as she padded over to him, dropped them at his feet, and looked up, waiting for a command that wouldn’t come, her tailbone wiggling with frantic, hopeful energy.
Harry looked from her eager, empty face to the sleeping forms of her sisters, to the bite mark stinging on his neck in the cool air of the apartment. The last vestige of his old life—the simple, private act of a shower—had been breached, taken, and transformed into another ritual of their worship.
He was out of sanctuaries. There was only this. Them. The constant, wet, hungry claim of their mouths and hands and tongues. He sat on the edge of the couch, and Kaia immediately laid her head on his knee, her eyes closing in contentment at the contact.
He was theirs. And somehow, terrifyingly, they were becoming his. Not as prizes, or threats, or even lovers. But as creatures. His creatures. The water from their bodies seeped into the fabric of his couch, a permanent dampness marking his territory.