After a bad night’s sleep – where dreams of falling from bridges only to land, inexplicably, on piles of glistening naked women had me tossing and turning in various ways – I dragged myself out of bed with the crystal clear realization of where I’d gone wrong. What had happened to mess-up my usually keen sense of judgment. I’d been in denial.
I threw off the t-shirt I was using as a nightie and stomped with determination into the bathroom. I started the shower and let the water temperature sort itself out while I went to check on my phone. I had plugged it in the moment I’d got home the night before and waited until it had been resurrected enough to send a text I’d fired off a couple – a few to Uncle Vic and then, after much thought, a wordy apology to Mark. Now, when I poked it awake there were a dozen or more messages waiting.
Nothing more from Mark, but there was a long fractured list of messages from Charlie. Collectively they asked how the night had gone – with a bunch of optimistic tacos, cucumbers and such, sprinkled liberally throughout. The majority though were all from Uncle Vic. Often he has issues with grammar in real life and auto-correct in the digital world is almost never his friend, so it’s typically a seizure-inducing exercise to try and decipher whatever idea he’s trying to convey. I had no problems with his latest messages however, they all said the same thing. Short, grammatically perfect, and to the point – *Call me. Now.*
I was very keen on doing exactly that. But first I needed to deal with the denial issue that had clouded my thinking. I undid the loose ‘just for sleeping’ braid of my hair as I padded back to the shower. As I stood under the warm spray my hands started into the soap and shave ritual on autopilot. Since I’d been in my mid-teens I had started my day in essentially exactly the same way – a warm shower, soap and shave (as needed), a good shampoo and then the always necessary conditioner. My hair is very long and very thick and if I skip, or cut short, the conditioner phase then it becomes something of a struggle to deal with. I’d discovered long ago that a full five minutes or more to let it soak in made all the difference. And so…what else what is a naked, soapy, girl with a high sex drive supposed to do for five minutes to help pass the time?
This had been my mistake. I had been skipping that part of my day for almost a week in anticipation of my date with Mark. Why I had thought doing so was a good, or even necessary plan was a mystery. One thing I was certain of was that if I’d been a bit sharper last night I would have gotten my ass out of there the moment I found that there was no computer where one was supposed to be. And even if I hadn’t done that, for sure I would’ve tried something else to get out of the office besides sitting back with my feet up to watch a live sex show.
Now it was time to recalibrate.
I kept rinsing out the shampoo until my hair had that slightly grabby quality on my fingers that told me it was fully clean. Then I reached for the bulk-sized bottle of conditioner, and this is where things start to veer off on a whole new tangent. Something interesting has happened to my wiring over the years, and years, of my shower-time relaxation practices. My body has become so familiar with the routine of what is to follow that just the smell of the conditioner alone triggers an instant physiological response. By the time I’ve finished working the gloopy conditioner into the full length of my hair – my lower parts have got their own version of gloop in full production. I get a tingling in my breasts, a bit of glow in my abdomen, and an aching heat between my thighs. Having recently been ignoring those signals, all my parts now seemed be making an intense extra effort to capture my attention – and this time I was going to listen!
My breasts, small though they are, felt exceptionally full. When I passed a conditioner-lubed hand over one, the nipple was already stiff with anticipation and it raked hard against my palm. I took a half step back so that the spray was directed mainly onto my lower half. When I raised up my other hand to join the first I began to give myself a slow and slippery boob massage. Lightly at first, but then with gradually increasing pressure, I ran my palms flat over both boobs with symmetrical circular movements. When the warm glow changed to a sharper sort of heat I fanned my hands open. Now my tiny, but oh so hard nipples flicked deliciously as they got struck by each passing finger one by one in turn. I let my head drop back a bit, closed my eyes, took a long deep breath, and swallowed several times.
Which brings me to what I’ve been led to understand is the other physiological quirk that I have going on. Though this one at least is only secondarily linked to the smell of hair products. Since the very first time that I began to explore my body in more recreational ways I noticed that the lube produced by my lower parts seems to work in sync with that of my mouth. So just to say that when I’m turned on – I salivate like a pack of starving dogs. Sometimes it makes for kisses that get a bit out of control, though in other positions I’ve found it to be quite useful.
In this instance though I just took it as a further sign of my readiness for action. I slid both hands slowly down my body, as I brought my head forward and stepped back into the spray. I rinsed my hands thoroughly, partially under the spray itself, partially by rubbing them lightly over my hips and thighs. With that done, I stepped around the cone of water and into the corner of the shower so that the bulk of the shower spray fell onto my left shoulder and back. With one foot on the edge of the tub and the other firmly planted on the bottom opposite side I leaned against the tiled wall and bowed my head. Time for business.
That first initial touch is always the best, so I try and drag it out as long as possible. With my left hand resting lightly on my stomach I traced a lazy path with my right – moving from one thigh, up and over my mound and then down to my other thigh. Back and forth, over and over. With each pass my hand moved incrementally closer to my pussy until I was brushing the smooth swell of my vulva on each side. When I could no longer hold myself back I finally let my fingers push straight down from the crest of my mound.
The pleasure center of my brain burst into life and I heard myself gasp over the sound of the falling water. As my middle finger brushed lightly past my clit and then down and between my inner lips I could feel the sudden change in friction. A few small back and forth strokes later and my finger was completely coated in lube. I slid my index finger alongside as well and then spent several long and delicious moments while I just cupped my palm over the whole of my folds.
So much depends on where my mind is and how much warm-up my body has gone through as to what happens next. When things are moving slower then I often need to wait in that position while everything gets fully on—line. But I could feel the tiny but eager press of my clit against the ridge of my palm and knew that all my systems were more than fully ready. I gave one more small slippery push between my inner folds with my middle finger and then drew the dripping fingertip upward. With the lightest touch possible I dabbed at the tiny nub of my clit. Painting it with my lube and reveling at each little stab of pleasure.
From there it was only a matter of a minute or so before my fingers had moved from light touches to firm, increasingly urgent circular strokes. Movements that made contact with not just my clit but really all of my vulva and produced squelchy wet sounds that mingled with the drum of the shower spray. As the intensity built my left hand moved first to my chest – where my right boob was rubbed and squeezed so that the nipple ground into my ribs – and then, reluctantly, up to grab around the neck of the shower head for support.
I’ve always thought of orgasms like a day at the beach. Where the build and crash of a breaking wave is the release of the same sort of energy and I’m just caught up in the tumbling water. The swell of a particularly big wave had lifted me now and as I felt myself floating up and up, higher and higher. I could tell that the fall was going to be particularly fast and hard and far. And then, with a sharp panting gasp it began.
Whatever part of my brain that processes an orgasm completely exploded. My legs shook with the intensity and I had to hold onto the shower head arm in desperation while I fell in-wards over and over and over. My right hand stopped it’s frantic movements and just cupped itself over the whole of my pussy once again. I held it there with a firm pressure that helped draw out my long tumbling ride as the wave gradually lost it’s energy.
My heart was pounding and my breaths were loud and ragged. I held in place, letting the soothing flow of water continue to run over me while I slowly regained control.
My water bill not withstanding, I was strongly considering another trip, or two, back through the surf. But the insistent ringing of my phone in the other room was starting to get to me. I’d ignore it successfully so far, but now that my inner fire had been at least partially damped though, it was a distraction. So instead I stepped fully back under the spray on wobbly legs and began to rinse the conditioner away.
It was ringing again when I plodded into the living room several minutes later.
Not surprisingly the display on my phone announced ‘Uncle Vic’. I wrapped my hair in one towel and put him on speaker while I began to dry myself with another.
“Katie!” he said. His usual gruff bark but had gone up an octave or two with alarm.
“In the flesh,” I said.
“Thank god you’re alright! Are you alright!? What happened last night? Benny! Oh my god. Did you go into the apartment? The wrong apartment! Unbelievable!”
It was hard to know where to jump in with a reply.
“Yes, I got in. And out. But yes it was the wrong penthouse. Not to worry though, I’m fine,” I said. Which was actually more than true in that moment – basking as I was in the afterglow of my recent shower exploits. It was what I’d been missing and I had the warm and steady feeling of being able to tackle anything the day might throw at me.
“Okay. Okay. Thank god. Benny! He told me when he heard it on the news. He figured it out then that he’d goofed. Oh my god. Now you have to get over here right away! Right away!”
I was actually entertaining the thought of returning to bed and digging out my vibrator to see what sort of charge level it had, and maybe seeing if I couldn’t up my warm and steady glow another notch, or two…or maybe three. But I couldn’t exactly put those thoughts into words, so instead I went with, “I have dogs that I need to walk soon. Remember? But after lunch I can head over and…wait…did you say news? What news? What did Benny hear? What are you talking about?”
The sound of Uncle Vic’s panicky breathing was hard in my ear.
“Uncle Vic? What’s going on?”
“The guy in the penthouse. Did you touch anything? He was a judge. A real big wig. The cops are going crazy!? My police scanner has been on fire all morning.”
An icy chill swept over me that had nothing to do with my damp skin.
“Ya I saw him. A judge huh?” I said. Two images popped into my mind. The first was of the framed picture of the man and his wife on the desk. The man had given the camera the sort of fixed steady-eyed look that suggested years of practice weighing the words of lawyers and witnesses. The other expression I’d seen on his face had been far less composed – an eye-rolling mask of panic when I popped out of his office and zipped my way past the bed. Did he remember what I’d looked like? He’d been bound, and naked, and probably more than a bit sexually frustrated in the moment. Was my brief appearance a blur to him or the sort of thing that burnt into his memory for all time?
“Did he tell the police what I look like? Is he trying to press charges?” I asked, a lump forming in my throat. How much trouble was I in?
“Oh honey…he’s not doing anything like that anymore. Somebody bumped him. He’s dead.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/griuff/recalibrating_fsoloshower
It’s always a major turn on to read the bath ritual.
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