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Caught in the Shower by Lizbeth Dusseau

Caught in the Shower by Lizbeth Dusseau
From the novel: An Innocent Obsession (c) all rights reserved.

Steam billows from the bath, rolling like warm mist off the ocean. Leaning against the door frame, I stare through the shower stall at Alan’s body whitened by the fog. Rivers of water run down the glass, and down his thighs, and through the thick, dark hair on his chest and legs. Savoring his tight ass—like rounds of grapefruit I could pluck—my body quickens.

If he knew I was here, he’d invite me in.

So certain of that fact, I wander on tiptoe across the emerald-green tiles, inviting myself inside his shower. The door squeaks and he turns around, startled. Then his smile brightens as he sees the water soaking through my tee shirt. The sexy truth appears from beneath that clean, plain white. My broad aureoles bear lazy nipples at their centers—the buds tiny and teasable. These mounds look as though they are made of white cotton suspended on air inside my translucent shirt, floating toward him begging. I beg for what I want, wondering if he’ll accept the seduction or send me away. This is only the second time I’ve sneaked into his apartment and I worry that he’ll be mad.

With his scrotum in my fingers, I move the liquid sac across my palm as I stare into his brown eyes looking for approval. His cock begins to harden, throbbing rapidly to an erection, and then he tears away my nylon shorts, letting them drop like a wet rag to the shower floor. So, now he has my crotch in his hand, like I have his in mine—though his hand grabs while mine caresses. I don’t need more approval than that. Alan’s other hand squeezes my ass until I feel a painful, pleasurable surge of satisfaction, and slipping from his grasp, I drop to my knees, water falling from overhead like raindrops to drench everything still dry.

“Good bitch,” he says hissing, a hand running through my wet curls. I like him talking nasty, hearing the edge in his voice, as though he were demanding I serve him like a slave. I do this on instinct, the experience a natural one, as if my life were meant to be understood on my knees, gazing upward.

Now, my eyes rest on the organ beating at my face, as the swollen spear sticks up straight, pointing somewhere skyward. Wiggling into his crotch, his night musk lingers in the air about my nostrils and I breathe in its mysteries—he hasn’t yet washed the fragrance away.

He doesn’t smell clean, and I wonder where he was last night. And who he was with? Is that another woman’s perfume I sense, or did he just jack-off to porn? I smile thinking all these things, then swallow that smile as I swallow his cock. With my lips opening, the head glides inside. Drawing back the skin with my hand, my fingers slide along the stalk, moving up and down, while my tongue laps away the last of the salt and sweet cum I taste there.

He purrs hungrily as an animal would, winding his hands through my hair and pressing himself deeper down my throat. He’s anxious, wanting me as much as I want him.

We get to rocking inside this slippery stall, so hard he finally takes his hands away and grabs for the sides while I work the climax from him. Does he really understand how well I manage him? He thinks he’s in control, but I know better. So what if I have to do this from my knees, and listen to his crude conclusions about my soul when we’re not having sex.

I know he thinks I’m a whore, though he doesn’t have the guts to say so. It wouldn’t matter to me. I know what I am. Whore doesn’t fit, but the slut word does. I’d never take cash for what I do; if I can’t enjoy screwing my men without money then they aren’t worth my time.

In the center of this driving rainstorm of water, I taste something sweet; and although it quickly drowns away, there is the fresh sexual scent of him as he begins to erupt. I let the cum spurt down my throat, pulling it inside me as though I need it to live. I know my survival hinges on this. Hummm, sweet cream. Like I could nurse at this erection all day long. Were that so, I’d find one man and stick with him. But since the anatomy of my life doesn’t work that way, I keep moving from one man to the next.

“Get on the bed and stay on your knees,” he says while slapping my water-soaked face. Impishly crawling from the shower stall, I inch my way along the emerald tile and the dark carpet covering his bedroom floor. Scampering like a puppy to the top of his mattress, I wait, heinie waving like a red flag; cunt and everything else about me dripping wet. When he comes to me, ambling slowly from the bathroom toweling his face, I know he’s admiring my ripe flesh, almost wishing he hadn’t cum so soon. He would have liked poking that rod deep in my belly, shooting himself to the ends of the channel as though he were making babies. I’m surprised he even bothers with me now; once Alan’s had his fix, he rarely spends the time required to get me off.

Today, I’m lucky. He presses his hand at my snatch and begins to play. I know I don’t have long, but I only need a few quick moments until I’m far from the planet, mindlessly ecstatic. My randy home bursts. The muscles in me crunch down wishing for meat, but are content with a few deft fingers. I squeeze, bear down, squeeze more, and clench with my half-loaded pussy, while my ass grinds on air. His thumb moves higher, pressing at my anus. It’s too much to hope that this will be some drawn out venture. It’s come and gone in less than sixty seconds, but well worth that swaggering journey across his emerald tile.

“So, did I leave my door unlocked?” he asks.

“Un-huh,” I answer as I pull off my wet tee shirt and sit naked on his bed.

“What are you going to do about your clothes?”

“Borrow yours,” I conclude. “Or stay here long enough to use the dryer.”

“Can’t. I have a meeting in…” he consults the clock on nightstand, “in twenty minutes, Clarise.”

“Then a tee shirt and shorts will do.” Alan’s slim enough that we can share clothes; though, I’m sure it won’t be a habit—not with this man.

He stares warily my way.

“Come on, hon, I can’t go out of here like this,” I whine a bit.

“I think you look just fine,” he tells me smirking.

“Of course you would.”

I wait as he searches through his dresser and pulls out what I need. Blue nylon running shorts and a tee shirt from the Boston Marathon, 2005—faded but wearable. Might even improve my image.

“So, were you planning to seduce me, or was this an accident?” he asks.

“Sort of planning.”

“Horny?”

“Of course, and I thought of you first.” I lie, and he probably knows this, but we’re not worried about that sort of thing. Lovers like us always lie. I think the ego stays intact better that way. I was actually thinking of Joseph this morning when I woke up, but he’s away on business for a week and I can never see him this early. Stockbrokers wait until the last bell sounds for sex. I have been hungering for him lately—more than the others, and I don’t understand why. He’s aloof, inconstant and sometimes brusque, while I treat him like royalty. Anyway, Alan, the book editor, had to do. He’s rarely ready for work before ten. Too bad he has a morning meeting or we might have done it right and spent an hour in bed.

“You look good,” he manages the compliment while I’m shaking out my hair. The curls are like little rivers, with the muddled colors of my streaked brown hair becoming more noticeable when they’re wet. When my hair is dry, it sort of floats together like it’s natural—as though I don’t spend hours with Ziggy, the hairdresser, getting it right.

I’m vain about just this one thing—my hair. If my body is a little plump by current standards, it doesn’t matter. I have a theory about bodies, that size doesn’t matter, or shape, or even comeliness. Only energy matters, form without substance is lifeless and can never be sexy. I know my form generates warmth, and that the look of everything about me—wild hair, full breasts, and a hip-rolling ass—turns men on. I have plenty of men—falling into relationships I don’t ask for as easily as walking down the street. They like how I look and even better how I feel. Choosing the ones I want, I go with men who alarm me, and make no promises.

“Thanks,” I say in the wake of Alan’s compliment. He hasn’t stopped staring and that’s an even better compliment. “And thanks for the unlocked door.”

“And if it hadn’t been?”

Sporting a cocky grin I say, “I would have waited until you were out of the shower.”

“Then I would have been late.”

“Then we would have had to fuck fast,” I rejoin smiling as I jump off his bed.

“This was fast,” he reminds me.

“But it was good,” I sway myself past him looking for my sandals.

“You’re always good, Clarise.”

“Thanks.”

“But try to keep a lid on this sort of stunt.”

“Oh?”

“I mean not so often in the morning.”

“It’s only been twice.”

“And what if I’m here with another woman? That’s a strong possibility.”

“New girlfriend?”

“No. But I have other women and it could get awkward.”

“It doesn’t have to. I’d sidle up to both of you.”

“I wish,” he says disparagingly. “Women I date don’t do women.”

“How would you know, have you asked?”

“Trust me. They’d be giving up too much control.”

“Really? I would think that giving up control is what sex is about. Makes sense to me.”

“But not for some.”

I laugh. “Suppose that’s why you have me,” I quip while I’m starting for the door.

“Clarise,” he calls.

I turn back. “The office this week?”

“You have a message you want me to deliver?”

“I’m sure I can find one.”

We stop the banter there and I leave thinking it was a pretty good morning.

I’m always on a high and relaxed after good sex. My bicycle moves under me like I’m part of it. After great sex, I can’t ride at all, since I’m too removed and unfocused. That’s why quickies work during the day.

But for today, this is just what I need.