There's no better way to unwind than with a nice, hot bath.
My skin tingles and I feel a warm, heavy throbbing between my legs the second I turn on the tap and hear the water rushing against the smooth porcelain of the deep bathtub. Baths, for me, are a regular thing. I savor the passing moments while my body slides inch by inch into the hot, nearly scalding water before my once dry, now pinkish skin, slips beneath a snowy cloud of bubbles.
For at least a half an hour, maybe more, I soak. Unless I decide to stretch my back and legs out, I barely move. I might rest my foot against the ledge and stare while the water carves little chasms and valleys into the sudsy tufts, dripping back to the fragrant soapy depths. When I'm finished, I reach for the showerhead. I bring it close to me, to the space between my legs, and let the rain-like deluge pulse against my clitoris until my body tenses while the sensation of an earth-shattering climax drags me out with the same lapping cadence of ocean waves.
I've masturbated like this for years. I mostly prefer my bed, in the dark of night, when the world sleeps. But I can't deny the satisfaction of a climax after a steamy, hot bath. There's nothing like the feeling of hot water, surrounding me--suspending me--and the knowledge that when I'm finished, I stumble away exhausted, spent, and clean.
Bathing, for me, is a ritual. And it must be perfect, or as close to perfect, every time. Bubble bath is a must. I prefer the floral scents; bright and beautiful. Exotic scented bath oil, candles, and a few natural sponges are always within reach and neatly arranged. The showerhead is attached to the tiled wall with a sturdy bracket. It's a three-speed adjustable with pulse massage setting and a hose long enough to reach wherever I may be.
I've been with a few women and dated only two long term. Strangely enough, I've never asked any of them if they'd like to join me in the tub. I guess I've never given much thought either into how any of them might've reacted if I did. Baths are something people take to get clean. Oh, a few see it as a way to unwind after a hard day at the office, but how many would see their bathtub as a sacred place?
The first time my new lover said she liked her women wet, it barely registered. I thought she meant between their legs. A smile spread across her lips and she said something about being naked and soaked in water. "I love water." She said. "Rainstorms, sprinklers, pools, showers and baths. Being alone with another woman under the shower, or in a bathtub--"
She had my undivided attention, and then she abruptly stopped. Did she say she loved showers and baths? I couldn't believe I wasn't hearing things. "You stopped." I said. "You were going to say something else. Go on. I want to hear it." Her mouth stretched across her face in a strained smile. She picked up her coffee and paused before drinking. "You're sure?" I nodded and tried to contain my mounting excitement as she told me about her past lovers and how they'd tussle under a spitting showerhead, tossing projectiles of suds and water drops everywhere. Sometimes the scene was her bathtub, or the pool at a friend's house. Just her and her lover, alone and wet. She said there was nothing better than a soaking young beauty with hair dripping in wet tendrils over her bare shoulders and back.
We'd been seeing each other for a couple of months when she brought me this beautiful book on the history of Roman Baths. I quickly developed an obsession for the picture of the Baths at Caracalla painted by Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema, and I couldn't look at it without picturing us together in the waters of the tepidarium and caldarium, drenched. Several days later she left my house early for work while I was still asleep. When I woke up I saw a note she'd left on the nightstand under the lamp that said:
I need you naked and wet.
I don't remember how much time passed, maybe a week, or a little more. It was Saturday.
She was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper when I went into the bathroom, lit a few candles, and turned on the tap. I picked my prize Victorian Rose scented bubble bath and stared at the clear pink drizzle. It hit the swirling hot water and started to foam. I'd opened a new bar of rosewater soap and reached for a large porous sponge that looked vaguely like an ancient pottery shard. Images of Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema's women, lounging intimately and sharing untold secrets, filled my mind with lust as I slipped out of my clothes. What secrets will we share today, my lover and I? I put on my long silk robe and gave the bathroom an approving look. The space was warm with the smell of soap and roses in full bloom.
