Chapter 8: Day 3 Shower.
The bathroom mirror was fogged to opacity, the shower still spitting steam into the cramped space. Rivulets of water snaked down the distorted reflection of a stranger. Ella Knox. The name echoed uselessly in Taylor’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut, the warm spray plastering long, dark hair against his cheeks, neck, the ridiculous swell of his chest. E-cups. Christ. Even the water hitting them felt… amplified. Intrusive.
Alone. Finally fucking alone after Mark’s revolting lesson that morning. Twenty minutes of gagging on his cock while he droned on about eye contact and sucking cheeks in, his dirty talk a slurry of porn clichés that landed like wet garbage. And the soreness… a low, insistent ache there, a reminder he couldn’t escape. Anal was off the table, leaving only one alternative for Mark’s morning demands. The memory made his stomach churn, even as the hot water sluiced away the physical residue.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound his back. His mind, stubbornly, persistently male, catalogued the sensations with detached horror. The slide of slick skin against skin where thighs pressed together. The heavy, unfamiliar weight of breasts shifting with every breath. The curve of his ass beneath his own hands as he scrubbed mechanically. It was like piloting a flesh-suit designed by a horny teenager. Yet… a treacherous heat pooled low in his belly, utterly separate from the shower’s temperature.
His hand, slick with soap, paused on his stomach. Hesitated just above the dark curls he still hadn’t gotten used to seeing. The ache from earlier… it wasn’t just residual soreness anymore. It was a thrumming pulse. A demand. His cock – no, not his cock, her… it – it was gone. Replaced by… this. This complex, hidden landscape he both feared and, shamefully, craved to understand. Mark’s crude handling felt like a violation, but this… this was curiosity. A desperate, clawing need to reclaim some control over the alien vessel he was trapped in.
His fingers, trembling slightly, dipped lower. Brushed the outer folds. Electricity. Pure, shocking electricity zipped up his spine, making his breath catch. His nipples, already stiffened by the water and steam, tightened into almost painful points. "Fuck," he breathed, the sound swallowed by the drumming water. It wasn’t like jerking off. This was… softer. More diffuse. But insanely intense.
He explored tentatively. The plump, slick outer lips. The surprising firmness of the inner ones. The swollen nub at the apex – the clit. The term felt clinical, wrong. He circled it lightly with a fingertip. A jolt of pleasure, sharp and sweet, made his knees buckle slightly. He braced himself against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Oh, goddamn," he groaned. So this was what drove women crazy? This little button?
His mind screamed wrong, this is wrong, a chaotic blend of revulsion and the ingrained taboo of touching himself there. But his body, this new, traitorous body, screamed louder. It arched into his touch, seeking more pressure, more friction. Hormonal chaos was winning. Logic was drowning in a flood of sensation. He pressed the pad of his finger down more firmly, rubbing slow circles. Pleasure surged, hot and bright, coiling deep inside him. It was nothing like the focused intensity of stroking a cock; this was a wave building, radiating outwards, tightening everything in its path.
He found the opening below, slicker than he’d ever imagined possible. His fingers slid in easily, one, then two. The tight, wet heat was overwhelming. Alien. His own body clenching around his fucking fingers. It should have disgusted him. It did disgust a part of him. But the dominant part, the part riding the crest of this terrifying new pleasure, pressed deeper, curling his fingers, searching. His thumb found his clit again, rubbing in frantic counterpoint to the thrusting of his fingers.
"Shit," he gasped, head thrown back against the tile, water streaming over his face. "Oh fuck… fuck me…" The filthy words tumbled out, echoing Mark’s crude demands but charged with his own desperate hunger. The dual stimulation was maddening. Unbelievably good. His hips began to move, rocking against his hand, fucking himself on his own fingers with a rhythm that felt both learned and instinctual. The coil inside wound tighter, impossibly tight. His breath came in ragged gasps, punctuated by low, involuntary moans that sounded foreign even to his own ears.
He pictured nothing. No woman. No man. Just the blinding, consuming sensation. The ache, the throb, the building pressure that demanded release. His fingers worked faster, plunging deeper, his thumb a blur on his clit. The sounds filling the shower cubicle were obscene – wet slaps, his own choked gasps, the relentless drumming water. He was close. So fucking close. The edge was a physical thing, a precipice he was about to plummet over.
Suddenly, a sharp rap on the shower door shattered the steam-filled cocoon. Loud. Insistent.
"Yo, Taylor! You planning on using all the hot water? Some of us have lives, princess!" Chris's voice, sharp with annoyance, cut through the pounding water and his ragged breathing.
Taylor froze. His fingers still buried deep inside, his thumb pressed hard against his clit. The peak he’d been hurtling towards vanished, replaced by a wave of cold, sickening dread. The frantic pleasure snapped into horrifying vulnerability. He yanked his hand away as if burned, heart slamming against his ribs.
He stood there, trembling violently, water cascading over his exposed, traitorous body. The stranger in the fogged mirror stared back, flushed, wide-eyed, utterly exposed. Chris waited on the other side of the thin plastic door.