The water pressure would be the only good thing about this apartment if he didn’t live here.
The landlord bragged about the pressure when we toured at the end of sophomore year. She bragged about a lot, really, but most of those features we learned were lackluster at best. “Notice the soft mattresses!” she boasted, not mentioning that only one of the three in the house was memory foam. “Real wood furnishings,” she hummed as if she had done anything to maintain the wood. But at the end of the tour, she turned on the showerhead, shiny and detachable, and beamed at us expectantly.
“Go on,” she coaxed. “Put your hand in it.”
I did. Hot, even though the stream was relatively fresh. It stung on my hand. Water peppered my face, the same way it did when I washed a spoon in the sink. It was, truly, good water pressure.
And I noticed it every time I showered. Sure, the rest of the apartment needed work. The lights in the dining room flickered. A calendar hid the hole in the wall of my bedroom, and the floors creaked every time I shifted in bed. My back tickled with sweat in the summer. But today was the close of a day with the kind of snow that froze my lashes, with wind that pinked my cheeks. I wanted to melt it away tonight.
I strip in the bathroom, and every removed garment is sensory bliss. The seams of my jeans left creases on my hips. Time to get new pants. My sweater was the kind of wool that made my arms itch by the afternoon, and I wore it anyway since it made me look studious, but I savor its removal as it flutters to the floor. I massage the freedom back into my breasts once they escape their bra and inspect the stubble by my lips after I remove my panties. It is shaving day, apparently.
I turn on the water. Rarely do I shower alone, I realize, now that he and I are dating. The two of us established a morning routine this semester: one alarm to doze awake enough to notice the warmth of his arms around me, one alarm to grind on his morning erection until he tipped me over and fucked me, and then one alarm to actually leave bed. We would waddle to the bathroom in tandem. I peed as he started the shower. We passed each other the soap bar and sprayed each other with the showerhead as we discussed our plans for the day ahead. He left early to towel off and start the Keurig. I typically finished washing Batıkent Escort up around 10 minutes later. But I missed my alarms this morning. No embrace. No fuck. No shower.
And I realize, as I step into the shower alone for the first time in months, the water pressure is fantastic in this apartment.
My hand remains frozen in midair at first, undecided in its task. On one hand, our electricity bill was high this month, and the hot water heater wasn’t helping, not to mention a long shower’s impact on the water bill. My vibrator is just across the hall if I’m truly desperate. And I do need a productive shower–today is shaving day.
On the other hand, the showerhead is right there.
Easy decision. I take the showerhead.
My feet shuffle apart to the colder shower tiles on the edges, further from the water’s spray. I lean against the glass shower door, eyes closed. My thumb adjusts the showerhead’s setting: a gentle stream, then pulsing, then three fountains, then one jet.
When the blast first settles between my legs, I feel nothing, which is typical. It’s as if my body is shocked to numbness by the intensity of the water. But as my lips part and muscles relax, a warmth blooms in the center of my body.
Thoughts of my public policy essay and my calculus project melt into a sensual drivel of memories and fantasies. I’m standing and masturbating in the shower, and a beautiful woman with ringlet curls and teardrop breasts leaves red lipstick on my nipples after sucking them, and I’m in an orgy being caressed from every direction, and they’re kissing my arms, my hips, my thighs, but now it’s not an orgy, now it’s tentacles and they’re filling my throat to inhibit my moans, and I’m in a bed, I’m tied to it, I’m so wet my thighs sparkle, and I need him, and he’s there, it’s our bed, and he’s tasting me and my eyes screw backward, but now he’s inside me and the ties are gone, my legs on his shoulders, with just enough distance between us that I can watch him smirk before pounding my G-spot–oh god–again and again–fuck, I’m so close–just like that one morning–so close.
He pounds me like that one morning, and I can see it clearer than any porn-driven daydream, and his arms are wrapped around me to cradle my back, and my toes touch behind his head, Beşevler Escort and if I look down, I can watch his shaft glisten as he pulls it out of me and falls back in with an audible slap, and I keep crawling higher and higher, closer and closer to orgasm, but I need something more, my body won’t let me finish like this, I need some other kind of stimulation.
I grab my breasts and try to massage them the way he does–a firm squeeze, then a thumb brush across the nipple, gentle like his hands. We’re having sex, we’re having sex, we’re having sex. The image disappears from my memory. I’m coming down now, and not in the fun way.
My breast drops from my hand, and I find my opening instead. Two fingers slip inside without resistance, and I try to find my G-spot. His face, his body, his cock, his warmth, his skin–it’s vanishing faster now.
“Ugh!”
I drop the shower head, and it falls on its cord and clanks against the tiled wall.
“Dear?”
I teeter around, sex-dazed. My knight in birthday suit armor gleams on the other side of the glass shower door. His face is flushed from the cold, mouth half open in a smile. His last garment–a pair of plaid boxers–drops from his hand. He slides open the shower door, and as he steps inside, his cock is already hard enough to point at my face. And when he pulls me in for an embrace, the warmth of his skin beats any shower, even ours.
“I missed you,” I whine.
A hearty laugh from him. “I noticed,” he adds with a nod to the showerhead, still dangling on its cord. “Want help?”
I adjust our positioning in the hug so his head is between my thighs, then between my labia. His back pressed to the tile wall, I lean into him, grinding myself on his cock until his eyes flutter with arousal. My arm cradles the small of his back, and I press his body against mine until our noses touch, eyes locked.
“Please,” I whisper. “Fuck me.”
His hands plant firmly on my shoulders. He swivels me around, pushes me so my hands catch the opposing tile wall. And with his hands on my hips, he guides me onto the fullness of his cock, where we both realize:
“God, this is tight.”
He settles inside me a moment, adjusting to the pressure. The water drips from the showerhead onto the floor, and my arousal dribbles Beypazarı Escort out of me and down my leg. He withdraws delicately, inch by inch, until the lip of his head is at my entrance.
And he pounds inside me.
I hear myself cry out with passion.
Another pound.
My legs quiver.
Another pound.
My hands slip lower on the wall.
Another pound.
I thrust back to meet him this time, and our clap echoes on the tiles.
His thrusts accelerate, and my control dissolves. Legs shaking, arms weak, eyes rolled back, mouth agape, I melt more each time he massages my pussy until his grip on my waist was the only force preventing my collapse.
Even though we fuck nearly daily, I still marvel at the feeling of him inside me. It’s not the feeling of someone remarkably girthy. It’s the feeling of someone expert. His length inside me feels like someone who knows my body as long as I have. His head pressing my G-spot feels like his cock was shaped specifically for my pussy. And the rhythm of his growls and moans behind me sounds like he matches my level of arousal–orgasm incoming.
My trembling hand wanders until it finds my clit. I rub it with two fingers, concentrating with what little brainpower I have left to keep his hammering from displacing my hand. I don’t have to imagine this time. He’s hard inside me, so hard that I swear I could feel his contours, the lip of his head, the throb of his shaft. His hands squeeze my hips with a near painful urgency. And as his thrusts rise to a feverish pace–oh god–his moans mount, punctuating a choked “I love you”–fuck, I’m so close–as he drives my hips against his, cock straining to fill me completely.
The warmth in me breaks.
Every muscle in my body squeezes so hard it ached. My eyes roll back, mouth in an exaggerated “O.” I melt completely into his arms and onto his cock, massaging his shaft with the waves of my orgasm, tight enough that I can feel each twitch of his climax as he pumps me full of his seed. It would be too much if he weren’t here to hold me, but in his arms, I writhe, tremble, squeeze, rock as we orgasm together.
The drip of the showerhead bounces off my neck, but I don’t notice at first. My breaths slow, muscles twitch, and at some point he must have lowered me to the ground. My breasts pancake against the damp tile flooring, his stomach against the small of my back. He’s still inside me by a few inches. We breathe in tandem. The water on my arms cools and evaporates away. My legs steady from their trembling.
“Dear,” I murmur.
“Mm?” He sounds tired, as tired as I am.
“When you’re ready, would you like a shower?”