my shower

Join me under my shower. Or anywhere else. At any liquid location. At any delta, any ocean, any spring, any waterfall. Any windy creek in a secluded park. But for now, today, only this shower. Only my shower, that used to be just mine. I would wait, caressed in the sprinkle, heels on porcelain, blinking for you.

Meet me under the spotlight of my shower. Surface tension would break softly on our skin where you joined me. An ellipse of spray where our shoulders took the water’s place. Water of my shower to touch us. Water to dissolve everything, stick to nothing, wash away. As close as we stood, expanding chests meeting erratically, water to slip in streams between us.

We could bathe at my shower. Turn my harmless poof kinky. This time have you controlling its soapiness down my body. Taint my daily wash for when you’re gone. My every look at your naked body would shed hunger. I’d stare at your cock and know it was made for lather. You’d need work to clean my cunt’s hidden reaches. But your cock would wait conspicuously for buff and polish. I’d be there, wanting to climb you rainy with everything I had. I’d be there, gentle, squeezing soap bubbles out of the poof, onto my hand, onto your shaft. My fingers sliding differently across your warmth. Just lightly playing, only to get a little rise out of you. I’d rinse you and the water would be nothing like the wet of my mouth, nothing like our sex, our smell. Nothing like my cunt surrounding you. I’d lick and bite your skin and you’d taste like a commercial, aqua fresh and irish spring. Nothing like your taste at all. Nothing much left of us, nearly everything gone, meandering down the drain. Your clean finger would squeak into my fresh pussy, hook into a crevice that was becoming wet another way. But as dirty as I flowed, the water would just slip it away. I’d close my eyes, and close my mouth in a content hum, holding in a gurgly moan of pleasure. You’d pull me out the way. I’d open my eyes and see you blurry, elusive crystal dots and dashes suddenly exposed all across our bodies when we moved out of the splashing current’s way. Our sex transparent. Our sparkling noises echoing. Robbed of real lubrication, skin sticking to each other, like bare thigh on leather couch. Stripped of our gritty grime, our dirt, our sweat, we’d be surprised how much had left us. Surprised too at how much still left behind. Surprised at this drenched clarity. Our smiles simple, our moans laughter, our pleasure slipping and sliding under our feet, coming and going easily. I’d bend over against a tiled wall, spread my legs enough for you to enter in. Your hands plastered to my breasts, you'd push inside. Against my cleansed insides, your droplet studded cock would be friction clearer than I can remember before. Reluctant to move, skin holding back. You would fool around with that tugging rub slowly and teasingly, showing what we could build in no time to make it less so.

Our game would ruin us, what we had played to get rid of would only taunt you and me. We’d have to leave it all, we’d have to shut off the water with a thud, step out onto a towel to dry our feet in vain, in a hurry, so we could run, dripping, somewhere away from this steamy place, build up frantically a new layer of real life and dirt to coat us. And I’d be happy to coat you, happily give up sweet and sticky salt liquid onto your cock to coat you. I’d be happily fucked by you, rough and quick, thrown prostrate on to my bed at the waist, kicked away from the memory of that hot wash as fast as we could, as fast as we could cum, we would, we’d be surprised at this too, at how fast it could all come rushing down with your every thrust, how easily we could become soiled with sweat and moans and bumps and groans and cum again.

But first, meet me in my shower.