The bathroom fills with a slow, humid breath as I twist the shower handle and let the water run. Steam billows, curling around the double vanity and fogging the big gilt-framed mirror. I undo my hair and shed my t-shirt, then stand in front of the mirror, letting the heat and sandalwood from the oil rise off my skin.
I look at myself: hair loose and damp at the edges, a red ghost of a fingerprint on my cheek where I rubbed too hard. My mouth is swollen, lips shiny from the gloss and from Kent, and my nipples—oh god—my nipples are pushing out so hard they almost hurt. I tug at the waist of my jeans, working the button with shaking hands, then peel them down, along with my underwear, the cotton dark and sticky at the crotch.
I’m bare now, the glass and marble turning me into pure ivory, every detail thrown back at me a thousandfold. I run a hand up my side, over the soft pad of my belly, then cup one large breast, thumb circling the nipple. Oooh, that feels good! But I know I’m stalling. I know what I want. I just want to draw it out a little longer, see how it feels to make the world wait for me.
I glance at the open door, the slice of shadow beyond, and for a second I think I see a movement—a shift, a shimmer, the flick of a head turning away. My whole body prickles. Oh my god, could it be …? But instead of being alarmed, I feel aroused. Hell, I feel naughty. With a soft smile, I turn, angle myself away from the door, and bend at the waist, bracing one hand on the vanity. With the other, I reach back and spread myself open, just for a heartbeat. The air is warm now, the steam wafting over my deep pink insides. My pussy lips are swollen and glossy, the inner ones peeking out, glistening. I want someone to see. I want Kent to see.
I hold the pose, counting to three, letting my pussy show itself as my asshole clenches, and then straighten and let out a little giggle. There’s a low groan from out there. I can feel it in my bones, and the deep, masculine tone emboldens me. With a flip of my hair over my shoulder, I open the stall door and step into the shower. The water is almost too hot, needling my skin, but I don’t turn it down. I lean my forehead against the tile, lettingthe steam close in, then close my eyes and re-live the last hour, frame by frame.
I see myself walking into Kent’s office, hands sweating, heart pounding. I see the way his eyes went straight to my breasts, then to my bare feet, then back to my eyes. I see the way he sat, legs spread, sweatpants tented and obvious, not even pretending to hide how hard he was. I see myself kneeling at the end of the table, pouring the oil into my hand, feeling it run down my wrist. I see the first time I touched him, how his cock jerked in my hand, how he made that sound—raw, guttural, like he couldn’t help himself. I see the look on his face when he realized I loved touching him, and hope to never stop.
I press my palm to my own mound, fingers sliding between the lips, already slippery with need. I don’t even try to be gentle. I rub hard, fast, the way I imagine Kent would, breath coming in gasps as I stroke my clit. I think of his hands on me, the way he’d push my knees apart and hold me open, the way he’d say my name in that deep, slow voice.
“Fuck baby,” he’d rasp, blue eyes like live wire. “You’re my dirty little slut. Come for me, sweetheart.”
“Oh Daddy, yes,” I whisper, not caring if anyone hears. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Steam snakes down the inside of the glass, distorting everything outside the shower into an impressionist blur. My body is a watercolor—ivory and pink, all edges melting. I stop stroking my pussy for a moment and turn into the spray, lean my back into the cool slab of marble, and begin the fun again.
The water is hot, almost scalding, but the stone behind me steals the warmth from my skin. I arch away, then press into it again,shivering at the contrast. My hands start at my neck, skimming down over collarbones, then cupping my big breasts, squeezing hard enough to leave prints. My nipples are so stiff they ache under my thumbs. I rub them in slow, hard circles, then pinch until I gasp.
“Oooh!” I pant. “That feels so good, Daddy!”
I can almost hear the rumble of his reply in my ear, but I know it’s just my imagination. I let my hands drift lower, over the curve of my belly, tracing the path that Kent’s eyes always follow when he thinks I’m not looking. The memory of his hands, his voice, the way he groaned when I worked him tonight—it all crashes back at once, a sharp, sweet pressure in my chest and a deeper one below. I slip my fingers between my thighs, find myself so wet—pathetically, shamelessly wet, even with the water streaming everywhere.
I lean my head back, mouth open, and let the water hit my face. My other hand strokes circles on my clit, hot gasps escaping my throat. I close my eyes and see Kent: on the table, head thrown back, cock straining in my hands, every muscle in his body tight and shaking. I hear the sounds he made—low, animal, hungry. I imagine him grabbing me by the hair and yanking my mouth onto him, no pretense, no tenderness, just pure want and the hot hugeness of him between my lips, choking me.
“Mmmph,” I grunt in the shower. “Ummm!”
My fingers circle my clit, slow at first, then rougher, slipping lower, spreading the lips apart until my whole hand is soaked. I angle my hips forward and fuck myself with two fingers, then three, knuckles working hard and fast. It’s not delicate or dreamy; it’s filthy, needy, urgent. I want it to hurt a little.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” I whisper, and the shower drowns it out, but in my mind it echoes through the whole house.
I picture him behind me, pushing me down over the marble edge, his hands bruising my hips, the thick head of his cock prodding against me, bigger than anything I’ve ever had inside. I imagine him calling me his good girl, his dirty girl, his favorite, his only. I want him to force it, to not even care if that massive penis fits inside my tiny vag.
I work my hand faster, palm grinding, wrist aching, and the fantasy grows sharper—Kent bending me over the sink, spreading me open, saying my name. I say his, out loud, just to feel it in my mouth: “Kent. Oh fuck, Kent?—”
The orgasm comes in a slow, rolling surge, then slams into me all at once, a tidal wave from toes to scalp. My whole body shakes. I moan, loudly, not caring if it’s real or just in my head. My forehead thuds against the marble, legs nearly give out, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming his name a second time.
“Oooh,” I whimper helplessly. “Mmmm.”
I ride the aftershocks for a long time, my chest heaving, water washing away the sweat and everything else. I want to stay in this moment forever—hot, numb, spent.
But then, in the pause between the next wave of water and my own ragged breath, I hear it.
A single creak, out in the hall. The exact floorboard outside the bathroom. Instantly I freeze, the blood in my veins going from liquid fire to molten lava. I listen, holding my breath.
Nothing.
I glance at the gap in the doorway, the line of steam curling out into the darkness, and for a second I picture my gorgeous stepfather there—just on the other side, watching, maybe with his own hand wrapped around his cock, eyes locked on the shower glass, waiting to see what I’d do if I knew he was there.
The idea makes me pulse all over again.
I don’t move. I don’t cover up. I just stand there, completely exposed, water running down my body in streams, nipples flushed and hard, pussy still twitching. I want him to see me. I want him to watch. I even pull my pussy lips open a bit, showing off my gleaming clit as if begging for a kiss.
Because I want him to want me, every bit as much as I want him.
But there’s silence, and no hint of movement. Disappointment makes my shoulders slump. After a long minute, I turn off the water, slide open the shower door, and step out, dripping, leaving a pattern of wet footprints on the tile. The room is warm and thick with sandalwood and sex, the mirror fogged except for the oval where my breath has cleared it. My reflection looks wrecked—lips parted, cheeks streaked with red, hair a tangle down my back.
