The hallway was cooler than the bathroom, her nipples tight from the shift. She felt the faint breeze from the vent drift across her bare pussy, and it made her clench slightly. She didn’t know he was waiting around the corner.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the golden evening light casting a warm glow over the tiles. She reached down to the hem of her loose, pale pink cotton tee, thin with age, and lifted it slowly over her head. The soft fabric peeled from her skin with a quiet sigh, releasing the heat of her body into the air. Her brown skin gleamed faintly in the light. Her boyfriend had gone out shopping. She knew he always took his time, so she had decided to treat herself with a long shower. She wasn’t in a rush. This was her time.
She inspected herself in the mirror. Her breasts were above average in size. The natural weight of them pulling just slightly as she moved. Her nipples, a deep brown shade, were already perking in the cooler air. She let her hand brush across one, feeling the familiar, electric tug it sent through her belly. Next, her fingers hooked the waistband of her boyshorts. She dragged them down slowly, letting the soft cotton slide along the curve of her wide hips and over the swell of her round, plush ass. They slipped down her thighs and pooled at her feet, revealing the gentle slope of her belly. She always had a soft middle. But she still looked good naked, so she never let the extra thickness bother her.
She stepped out of the panties and stood naked for a moment, toes curling slightly on the cool tile. She breathed in deeply, taking in the faint aroma of her own skin. A warm, clean musk, touched by the floral lotion she had applied earlier. She turned toward the shower and reached for the knob. Her fingers, slightly damp from her own heat, brushed the cool chrome. She turned it slowly, listening to the pipes groan before the water came alive in a steaming rush.
She tested it with her hand, and it was too cold. Adjusted it. Too hot. A few more seconds, and the temperature hit that perfect threshold. Almost too warm, the kind of heat that made her muscles relax even before she stepped in. Steam rose around her like mist from a dream, curling around her breasts and thighs, kissing her skin. With one slow breath, she stepped inside.
The first touch of water slid over her shoulder and down her back in a warm, sensual sheet. She gasped softly. It felt like hands. Like a lover. Her nipples hardened under the cascade, and her thighs flexed as the heat sank in. She turned slowly under the stream, letting it glide over her round ass, tracing the dip of her lower back, the curve of her hip. Her body glistened, skin slick and radiant under the shifting light. One hand lifted, slow and deliberate, gathering her hair to rinse it back. The other slid lazily over her chest. She teased her nipple for a moment, then grabbed her body wash.
The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the steamy space, rising from the body wash as it lathered between her fingers. She pressed her palms to her belly, feeling its soft give, the comforting curve, the realness of her own form. And then lower, her fingers dipping between her thighs, tracing the line of heat already forming there, where slickness met soap in a perfect blend. She closed her eyes. She had time.
The water poured over her like liquid silk, tracing every slope and curve, catching in the valley between her breasts, pooling at the small of her back before running down the crease of her ass. She moved slowly, deliberately. Her hands, now slick with lather, glided over her chest again. She cupped each breast with a soft squeeze, thumbs brushing over her nipples just enough to make her hips shift, her thighs tense. A small sigh escaped her lips, not a moan, not yet.
The scent of her soap mixed with the heat of her skin, wrapping around her like a lover’s breath. It made her dizzy, dreamy. Safe. Her hands drifted downward, across the soft rise of her belly. She liked the feel of it. She liked how her fingers sank in just a little as she moved, her palms slow and pressing. She thought of how long it had been since she really paid attention to her own body, not just washed it, but felt it. Admired it. Touched it like it deserved to be touched.
Her fingers dipped lower. Her thighs parted slightly as she traced the outer line of her pussy. The warm water streamed between her legs, cascading in a steady rhythm, teasing but never enough. Her hand moved instinctively, fingertips slipping between her lips, barely grazing the soft, slippery skin. She gasped quietly, her eyes fluttering shut. Her clit pulsed under the ghost of her touch, sensitive from the heat and the quiet build-up of her own awareness.
Her hand lingered, fingers circling the spot slowly, light, just enough to feel it twitch and swell beneath her touch. Her body knew what it wanted. Her hips moved slightly, rocking forward into her palm, her lips curving into a knowing smile. Slowly, she slid her fingers back along her slit and into her entrance. Her thumb found her clit, and she rubbed gently and slowly.
As the sensation built, coiling around her fingers like a band stretched tight, she began to moan. Softly at first, then louder. Her fingers picked up speed as she rested her back against the shower wall. She drove her fingers into her slick, wet tunnel at a relentless speed until that band broke. The orgasm wasn't strong, but it lasted nearly a full minute. She stood there in the water, breathing heavily. She couldn't help but wish she had a cock inside her right now.
She turned her back to the stream, letting the water strike her shoulder blades and run down the dip of her spine. Her eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded with heat. Her heart thudded in her chest, warm, steady. Awake.
The last of the soap slid down her thighs, drawn away by the steady cascade of water. She turned slowly under the stream one final time, letting it rinse her clean, slick, flushed, and soft, every inch of her awake and humming. A satisfied breath passed her lips as she reached out and shut off the water with a gentle twist. Silence took over, broken only by the light dripping of water from her fingertips, her hair, and the edge of her breasts.
She stepped out onto the bathmat, steam curling off her skin in tendrils. The cool air rushed over her body in contrast to the heat she’d just left behind, pulling a shiver from her. Her nipples peaked hard again, a visible response, taut and dark against her warm brown chest. She reached for the thick white towel and brought it to her face first, pressing the plush fabric against her cheeks, inhaling the faint scent of lavender detergent and dryer heat. Then, slowly, she brought it down her neck, dragging the towel with reverence, as though unwrapping a gift to herself.
She dried her collarbones, then moved to her breasts, lifting each one gently with the towel, dabbing the undersides, rolling the fabric over her nipples with a teasing softness. She caught her own reflection in the fogged mirror and smiled slightly. She looked like sin wrapped in steam, skin dewy and flushed, curves glossy and tight from the heat.
Her towel moved lower, sliding across the gentle swell of her belly. She pressed her palm flat against it through the towel, then followed the line downward to her hip, her outer thighs, the inside where it was most sensitive. She was still damp between her legs. Not just from the shower. She bent one knee slightly, balancing herself as she dried her long thighs, lingering at the back where they met the curve of her ass. Her cheeks were round, full, and smooth beneath the towel. She gave one a light slap through the fabric, just to feel the bounce. She smirked to herself.
From behind, she knew what she looked like. She’d seen it. Hips wide, ass full and round, narrow at the waist in just the right way to make men stare longer than they should. She took her time drying there, dragging the towel along the deep dip of her lower back and the cleft between her cheeks. Then down to her calves, her feet, her toes.
When she stood up again, she was clean, warm, and bare. The towel hung in one hand, forgotten, while her skin dried in the air. She didn’t bother to wrap herself. She walked toward the door naked, unhurried. She knew he would enjoy coming home to her in the kitchen naked. He might even bend her over the counter again. The thought brought a warm tingle to her pussy.
The hallway was cooler than the bathroom, her nipples tight from the shift. She felt the faint breeze from the vent drift across her bare pussy, and it made her clench slightly. Her hips swayed as she moved, a natural rhythm, not put on, just part of how her body flowed. She didn’t know he was waiting around the corner.
The house was quiet. She stepped into the kitchen, bare feet whispering across the floor. The last drops of water slid down her spine, lingering along the curve of her back, catching in the cleft of her round, naked ass. She ran a hand absently over her damp hip as she walked, fingertips tracing the soft curve. She was glowing from the quiet intimacy of her own touch. And then — movement. Before she could process it, he was on her.
A flash of black. A hard body. Strong arms around her waist, dragging her back against a broad chest. She screamed, sharp and sudden, voice echoing against tile and walls. His hand clamped over her mouth. The other held her firm as he twisted her and shoved her forward. Her palms slapped the edge of the kitchen table, her breasts bouncing from the jolt. She gasped behind his hand, heart thundering in her chest, a fire of panic rising in her throat. He didn’t speak. Just held her there. Then came the sound, the unmistakable whisper of a zipper. The rasp of urgency. The rustle of clothing falling.
“No—no, please—” she managed, her voice half-sob, half-moan as he pulled her arms behind her back, forcing her arch deeper over the table.
His cock pressed hot against her entrance. Thick. Bare. Ready. She cried out as he pushed in. With one thrust, he buried himself inside her completely. Her body jolted. Her thighs widened automatically to steady herself, even as her voice caught in her throat. The sudden, deep fullness made her hips jerk backward into him before she realized what she was doing.
“No, wait—” she whimpered, but the words were breathless. Hollow. Weak.
Because her body was already reacting. He moved again. Pulled back. Thrust forward. And something in her cracked open. Every nerve lit up. The stretch of him was too much. Too deep. Too raw. But her walls clenched tight around him like her body wanted this, had waited for it. The table under her hips creaked with the rhythm of his thrusts. Her wetness ran down her thighs. Slick. Shameful. Inescapable.
Her nipples rubbed the table with each bounce of her body. Her toes curled against the floor, tension rising in her belly, in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Why does it feel so good? She didn't want it to feel good. She hated him. She wanted more. Her hands gripped the far edge of the table like a lifeline as he drove into her, harder now, deeper. His cock slammed into her, the base of him striking her soaked lips with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin, wet and fast, filled the kitchen. Her voice broke in little gasps. She was going to come.
“No—no, I can’t—” she whispered, shaking her head, as if that would stop it.
But her body had already decided. No matter what her mind screamed, no matter how she bit her lip to suppress the sound building in her throat, her body moved with a will of its own, surrendering to it. Her stomach drew tight, like a string pulled to its final trembling note. Her thighs quivered beneath her, every muscle coiled and aching, barely holding her up. Her breath hitched again and again, her moans growing higher, thinner, sharper, and involuntary.
A low heat bloomed deep in her belly and then surged outward. Pressure rippled beneath her skin like a wave pressing out from her womb. Her nipples dragged across the table, hard and throbbing, her clit swollen and aching where it ground subtly against the wood. She could smell everything, the soap still clinging to her skin, now mingled with sweat. The musky sweetness of her own arousal, sharp and humid in the heated air. His sweat, his breath, the raw male scent of his body pressing into hers, surrounding her. Claiming her. And then it hit.
Her orgasm exploded deep inside her. Not a burst, a quake. It started as a hard, clenching spasm in her core. A tight, almost painful squeeze that wrung itself around his cock like her body was trying to pull him deeper, to milk him. Her whole pelvis jolted as the wave crashed upward into her stomach, into her ribs, stealing her breath. Her mouth fell open in a sob. Not pain. Not just pleasure.
Her toes left the floor. Her thighs tried to close, but he held them wide, his fingers bruising her hips. Her fingernails scratched at the table as she cried out again, a helpless sound that rang through the kitchen like something sacred and broken. Inside her, her walls pulsed with wild desperation. Wet, hot, convulsing again and again around his cock. She could feel the veins along him, the curve of him, how deep he was, how full she was. Each spasm tugged on him like a kiss, like worship, and each thrust after made her flinch from the overload.
Her vision blurred. The world narrowed to sound and pulse and heat. And still, he didn’t stop. He kept moving. Still driving into her. Stretching the moment. Prolonging her fall. Her body collapsed forward, the last strength bleeding from her limbs. Her cheek pressed against the wood, slick with sweat, her hips trembling under his grip. Every thrust sent another spark through her. Oversensitive now, her clit twitching, her insides raw and tender, still spasming in smaller, rhythmic ripples.
“I can’t—” she whispered, though she didn’t want him to stop. “I can’t—”
But then he groaned. A low, ragged, guttural sound that told her he was close, and her body responded instantly. Her walls clenched again, desperate to feel it, to know what it felt like when he gave in. And he did. With one final thrust, deep and brutal, his cock thickened and throbbed inside her. She could feel the tension in his body, his abdomen flexing against her back, his breath breaking apart over her shoulder.
The first spurt. Hot and sudden, it hit the deepest part of her. A flood of heat spilling into her most sensitive, tender place. She gasped. Another pulse. Then another. His cum filled her in messy, molten waves, each one triggering a flutter inside her that made her groan again, her pussy squeezing him reflexively, welcoming, clutching, drinking it in. She could feel the way it coated her walls, slick and hot and thick, pooling low in her belly, leaking already down her inner thighs.
He slumped forward over her, still pulsing inside, chest flattening against her slick back. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, warming her ear and neck, heavy with the smell of exertion. His scent mixed with hers, now inseparable. His hands, once gripping hard, now softened, resting on her hips like he couldn’t let go. She was shaking beneath him.
Her skin glowed with heat. Her legs were weak. Her core throbbed, sore and still clenching faintly around him like her body didn’t want to release the moment. Didn’t want to let him go. She had never felt so full. So ruined.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, her hand reached back, fingers curling around the edge of the black mask. She pulled it off. His eyes met hers. Her expression softened, her lips parting in a breathless laugh, her body still twitching with aftershocks.
“You actually did it,” she whispered, voice dazed and shining with affection.
He looked down at her, flushed and vulnerable, still inside her, still trembling. She and her boyfriend had been talking about her rape fantasy for a few months now. He always found reasons to tell her he couldn't. Until now, it seems.
“I love you too much to keep saying no,” he said.
She rolled and reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. Still full of him. Still sore. Still burning.
“Next time,” she whispered against his lips, “I want you to tie me down.”