She awoke the next morning. It was early -- the sun was not yet up; the sky was a deep blue. She could see a faint star through the skylight above her head. She was disoriented for a moment and then her heart skipped a beat.
Shit!
She was in his bed -- it was Thursday. She had to get to work!
She turned and saw him sleeping next to her, lightly snoring. Quietly getting up she rubbed her eyes and took a few calming breaths.
Go home, change and get to work, or just get cleaned up here and go in with the same clothes as yesterday?
She needed a shower and coffee for sure, either way. It was 5:13. More than enough time to get ready here
and
go home to get a fresh set of clothes.
She got up slowly, hoping to avoid waking him.
Sitting on the toilet she rubbed her head again. It felt like she had been drinking, but she hadn't had any the night before. The amount of pee coming out of her was a testament to how much tea she had drunk, but no alcohol.
It was at times like this -- early in the morning before her coffee -- she felt the most remorse for her antics the night before. In college, she would cry at times like this, the humiliation and shame replacing the sexual excitement that had driven her. But today there was none of that -- just a mild arousal at the idea of her submissiveness -- neither a strong attraction nor repulsion. Just another way she could have fun with him. He obviously enjoyed it, but she didn't get the feeling he
needed
it.
She let herself drip dry, thinking more about their relationship.
Need.
Did she
need
him? Did she felt he
needed
her? She rewound the past several weeks. She couldn't recall a single time where she couldn't leave him the moment things didn't work out. She had no doubt he would drop her in a flash if he felt like it. On the other hand, she was falling deeply in love with him -- it scared her a little. She knew it would hurt like hell if he dropped her. He was a fantastic "catch" as Carole would put it, but Marcie didn't want to think that way. It was too mercenary. She refused to make their relationship about wealth and material goods.
She still wasn't certain what it was about her
he
was attracted to. Obviously he enjoyed the sex and for that she was thankful. She had never thought of herself as a particularly sexy person, even if the boys all liked what she had to show them. Her resolve to overcome her stepmother's abuses was liberating. She hoped it would make sex more interesting. Last night, and last weekend, were good evidence of how she might broaden her horizons.
She needed to take a shower and wake up. Although his setup was a little intimidating, she was determined to figure it out enough to get washed. She left the toilet unflushed, not wanting to wake him, and proceeded into the shower room.
The only light came from the north-facing full-height windows. The room was dark grey, the boulders and tile floor only barely distinguishable from one another. She carefully made her way across the floor to the grotto and ducked inside, hoping there might be a light there. She knew there were controls for the spray but she'd never been inside.
As she entered, lights flicked on, hidden behind the rocks and casting a soft indirect glow similar to the basement. The memory of her "torture" last night pulsed through her spine. The "grotto" was a small shower room outfitted with normal controls, the walls made of the same rocks. In addition to the knobs for hot and cold, she saw there were several controls to direct the water.
The room itself was large enough for two people -- on each side of the main controls were individual shower heads, one for a person's head, and one spraying straight at their body.
Ignoring anything that didn't look like a hot or cold, she turned on the water and was rewarded with a burst of cold water spraying out of the left hand shower head. She screamed a little at the unexpected blast of cold, stepped aside and quickly adjusted the temperature. This must be where he showered -- there was a bar of soap and some shampoo that looked like it would do the trick.
Lathering up she let the hot water play against her shoulders, the warm streams cascading down her breasts. The warmth reminded her of the white flame; she could almost recall the miniature stars that had spread throughout her body when they fucked the night before. She wasn't sure if they were still there, embers banked in her skin, or whether it was just a figment of her memory. Either way, the water re-ignited her feelings from her latest trip "to the river" and she knew she had to have more.
She closed her eyes and let the water wash over her head. She raised her hands up, rinsing the lather from her hair; in this position she would be completely exposed, but buried in the grotto she felt protected, as if in a womb. That was why, when two hands brushed against her nipples, she let out a scream and spluttered from water dribbling into her mouth. Her eyes shot open and she saw Monty's surprised look.
"I'm sorry!" But he was laughing. "I couldn't resist. Your breasts are so...touchable...I had to feel them."
She batted his hands away and shot him an angry look -- more at the embarrassment of screaming than at his invasion, but even that was a little annoying;
who did he think he was just pawing at me?
He reached down and kissed her, apologizing again and turned to the controls. Momentarily the other shower head sputtered and he faced her, the water warming his neck and back. She couldn't stay annoyed long -- he was so easy on the eyes and so easy to get along with. She was pleased he enjoyed her body, but he needed to know where she drew the line.
The problem was, she thought further, she wasn't sure where that line was. He stared at her as she soaped up her body, his cock beginning to stiffen slightly. She lathered up her hands and slowly dragged them between her legs, making sure she spent longer than usual on her asshole and cunny. She watched his eyes following her the entire time and she smiled at him when he looked up to see if she saw him watching her.
"Maybe you need to wash yourself a little, hmmm?" She wanted to see him stroke himself -- she'd always liked to see guys getting themselves off, and she realized he'd never done that for her. And then she remembered: even if he did, the thing she loved to watch most -- the stream of gloopy semen shooting from the tip of their cock -- wouldn't happen.
He had begun to lather up and smiled at himself, coating his shaft and balls with foam, but not spending much time there. She watched as he spread soap under his arms, down his rib cage; as he bent to wash his knees and ankles. She imagined the water running into the crack between his cheeks, stimulating his hole. Even these mundane activities were turning her on. This is how she knew she loved him.
