I step into the shower stall, the sleek modern design exuding an air of luxury. My gaze shifts warily towards the wide showerhead, a conflicted feeling stirring within me. The last two days have been…

I don’t even have the words.

The showerhead seems to glare back at me, its numerous nozzles like eyes. Peering. Waiting. With a trembling hand, I turn the faucet, slowly, like I’m afraid it will come alive and snap at my fingers. The initial spurt announces itself in a harsh whisper, like it’s chiding me for taking so long, but soon after the fall becomes tranquil. Like rain.

How fitting.

It descends on me like a lowering curtain, washing away evidence of Frost’s analogous first session while simultaneously forcing me to relive it in vivid detail. The water collides with my sore muscles, gently beating down the tension, but the wet sensation evokes memories of yesterday’s events.

Dramatic Soprano.

I’d almost said it. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue.

Why hadn’t I followed through?

I don’t know how I’d been able not to. The water streams over my glasses, obscuring my vision, and the frames suddenly feel heavy on my face.

“Did you know that paperclips used to be handmade?”

I close my eyes against his haunting voice, but can’t escape his arctic eyes. In my mind’s view, he stares at me even now, watching, assessing.

I swallow against the stab of desire in my core, the memory of his cock spearing me like a sharp echo. I blink rapidly, my throat tightening. Tears rise at the corners of my eyes, merging with the artificial rain falling to meet them.

Guilt consumes me, my chest hollow with sadness. And then tight with…

Want.

No. No, that’s not true.

You liked it, a whisper sneers.

The tears spill from my eyes, and I sniffle back a sob.

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