I picture him stroking his cock.
Big. Thick.
Sweat dripping down his abs.
Jaw clenched tight.
“Want you to use this on me,” I say, shoving my fingers deeper.
My whole body shakes.
“Want you to wipe me down after you fuck me raw.”
I gasp.
“Want you to ruin me.”
I come so hard my knees give.
Collapse against the tile.
The washcloth clutched in my fist.
My body still sparking.
When I can stand, I rinse off.
Hands shaking.
Wrap myself in his still-damp towel.
Close my eyes again.
I imagine him carrying me to his bed.
Feeding me pastries.
Licking the sugar off my skin before round two.
I wring out the cloth just a little.
Enough to leave him in it.
To keep that edge of filth.
Then I tuck it into my bag.
Snatch a fresh washcloth, drag it slow between my legs, and leave it in the shower.
Let him wash himself with me tonight.
The bathroom’s a steamy cathedral now.
Fog beads on every tile.
The mirror’s a ghost-sheet of condensation.
I towel off.
