I take the shower wand off the wall but leave it at my side as I sit, spreading my legs wide. Dipping my middle finger intomy pussy, I find a string of cum there, which I drag out slowly, letting it stretch.
His breathing slows, his focus narrowing in on the act, but then he says, “Keep your legs spread wide while you scrub yourself clean.”
His message is clear enough. I turn the shower head on myself, letting the jets spray directly onto my sensitive, exposed clit, sending a shock straight through me with the force of it. I have to take a steadying breath so I can say, “Like this?”
“Yeah, Trixie, just like that.” He leans back in his chair and takes hold of his cock, stroking himself in a lazy rhythm that seems impossible to me right now.
The showerhead is overwhelming, the jet bashing into the tender flesh, blowing through all its protections to blast every nerve ending. I tilt back, resting against the cold tile that makes my shoulders cry out. It only takes a few seconds to get my legs pulling up toward my stomach, but that only exposes me more.
I explode with a gasp and a series of muscle spasms that have my body attempting to curl up on the little seat, but John takes hold of my knees to lower them, spreading them until the stretch aches along my inner thighs.
“I need you clean everywhere, Trix. Get that hole clean.”
Blood pounds in my ears. I resist the urge to give up on the seat entirely and curl up on the floor of the tub. Instead, I do as he tells me, dipping my fingers down into my pussy to spread it as wide as I can. I take a breath before tilting the wand so one of the jets sprays inside me. I squirm, unsure if I like it or not. It’s like scratching an itch but not an itch that should be scratched. I feel it pool inside me for a coupleseconds before filling up what little space there was and draining down my ass.
John’s face, set in a stern expression since I entered the bathroom, lightens a little. Just a tug at his lips and a lift at his eyes, but I see it, and it warms me. If this sight makes him happy, I’ve done my job.
I’m a good whore for him. Nothing more. Nothing different, just a whore, but a good one. This isn’t hitting any of the best spots, only swishing at my G-spot, my clit forgotten, but his satisfaction might be enough to make me come.
“And now your other hole,” he murmurs.
I must scowl or something. My response is definitely negative. He flattens his palms against my shins to coax my legs up until the arches of my feet settle on the edge of the tub. Whatever he sees, it’s not good enough for him. He lifts me up by my ass, his muscles barely even straining beyond his abdominals puffing up, and resettles me on the edge of the seat.
He frowns.
“It’s fine, I can reach,” I huff, trying not to get offended. But, I mean, every horrid inch of me is fully exposed under the blinding light right now. And not to be a brat or anything, but I just power-washed my pussy. I’m pretty sure my ass is fine.
“It’s not,” he growls. “I need that asshole so clean I can eat it.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but it’s enough to get a startled gasp out of me, which of course he responds to with a grin that tells me he’s pleased with how shocked I am. He picks me up again, this time scooping me out of the tub, leaning my body against his so I end up covered in shimmery bronzer despite all the work I put into washing up, and tucksthe seat away. Then he sets me back on my feet but turned away from him and hands the shower wand back.
“There, now wash your asshole, Trixie.”
Oh, boy.
But I’m not easily daunted. I take a washcloth, lather it up with soap, then bend over so he can watch me as I reach around and scrub myself there. It tingles just as much as the wand did on my pussy. When I replace the washcloth with the shower head, I swear my whole body puckers up.
“Again,” John says. I guess he’s an ass man. I don’t mind.
I scrub and rinse myself twice more before John nods, turns the water off, and buries his face between my ass cheeks.
“Noooooooo,” I groan, and I might actually mean it this time. I don’t know what time it is, but at some point, John sealed up the heaviest layer of light-blocking curtains, so I have a feeling I’ve already missed the first panels of the day.
And I’m sore all over, but when I say, “No,” I mostly feel that ache in my jaw. We were in the bathroom for over an hour, John licking me everywhere before making me wash him as thoroughly as I washed myself so I could lick him everywhere. The aching in my jaw would be from when he made me kneel in front of him and open my mouth as wide as possible with my tongue sticking out so he could rub the head of his dick on it. He was oddly gentle and careful with it, his brows as furrowed in concentration as they could be with the prosthetics still glued to it. His costume might have been a craft project, but a professional did that face.
He fucked my face for what felt like forever but was probably no more than ten minutes. But it was ten minutes ofmy jaw dropped, of almost no breaks, even when I said I was going to drool everywhere, and he gave me that wink to show he was fully aware and all about it. I figured you only live once — okay, thanks to my body being a disaster, I sort of had a couple cardiac arrests, so I guess I’ve lived a few times now — and drooled everywhere.
He came on my tongue and then hauled me up onto my feet, holding me securely when my knees threatened to give out while he licked my mouth clean. It should have been weird and gross, but I loved how we both tasted like him. It just sucks that now, I feel like my jaw’s been dislocated. I’m aching all over.
“Shhh,” John whispers, his voice a purr against my back. I don’t remember falling asleep spooning, but I kind of want to stay here forever with his body wrapped around me. I play at independence, but most days, I feel like I’m barely hanging on. Emerson and I, whatever it is, works because it’s a lie. My friendships work because they don’t know the whole story of me, only the bits I’ve shared. My sister knows the dirty truth, and we don’t talk. My father thinks it’s still 2007 most days, lazy Sundays at the old house in Cleveland, him mowing our postage stamp of a yard, Mom doing her best to braid our hair even though she never got the hang of it, Cam and me swapping turns at hopscotch.
It’s hard to put an exact point on the moment I stopped existing as my authentic self, if I ever really did. How could that family have been real when we ended up scattered to the wind?
John and I have created an alternate reality here for a truth that’s fiction, but it’s authentic within its universe. In this hotel room, he’s John and I’m Trixie and he’s bought me for the night, only to block the windows to keep the sun at bay.
His fingertip digs into my clit, finding a spot that has me grinding my ass into him. “You’re going to take me one more time, Trixie. I’ve got one more load for you, and your pussy wants it, doesn’t she? Your pussy’s hungry.”
“John!” I whimper as I melt into him, letting everything of myself drift away. Yes, I’m sore. Yes, I ache. Yes, I’m rubbed raw in places that really shouldn’t be raw. But I’m also in a haze, and every one of his touches lights me up. It’s slick between us, a furnace we’ve built there, and with his body as bereft of hair as mine is — although he’s definitely been waxed, no chemo death of hair follicle cells there — we slide against each other. His cock prods at me every time I push back into his lap.
