Shower
The pavement slapped rhythmically beneath her trainers, each footfall a little heavier than she'd like. Emily pushed through the burn in her thighs, her short red ponytail bouncing with every stride. Her black running shorts clung to her damp skin, the lightweight fabric doing little to disguise her lean frame. The sports bra—sized for someone who actually needed support—sat loosely against her flat chest, but it was comfortable, and right now comfort mattered more than anything.
She took the final turn onto her street, lungs aching, sweat trickled down her temples, pooling at the collarbones exposed by her top. Her cheeks burned—not just from exertion, but from the occasional glances she caught from passing cars. At nineteen, she still wasn’t used to the way people looked at her, even when she felt anything but desirable in sweat soaked workout clothes.
The front door creaked as she shoved it open, greeted by the quiet hum of an empty house. Her parents were out—some charity thing, she vaguely recalled—leaving her alone with the aftermath of her run. The cool air inside prickled against her damp skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. All she wanted was to peel off her clothes and stand under hot water until her muscles stopped screaming.
Upstairs, the bathroom door clicked shut behind her. She caught her reflection in the fogged-up mirror—flushed face, tangled hair, the faint outline of ribs beneath her skin. The new showerhead gleamed from its perch, a sleek chrome upgrade her dad had bragged about last weekend. "High-pressure," he'd said, like that was supposed to mean something to her. Emily turned the knob, letting steam flood the room before stepping under the spray.
The first blast of water pressure was strong, but she didn't flinch—just stood there, letting it massage her shoulders red. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment, not in any context. The water sluiced down her narrow frame, tracing the sharp angles of her hips, the flat plane of her stomach. She squeezed shampoo into her palm, scrubbing at her scalp while her other hand drifted absently over her body—a habit, really, no different than adjusting her ponytail mid-run.
Then she reached for the detachable showerhead. The moment her fingers curled around it, the pulse nearly knocked it from her grip. Emily gasped—not at the force, but at the sudden thrum against her palm, a vibration so deep it made her curious. She aimed it experimentally at her thigh and watched the skin ripple under the barrage, her muscles twitching involuntarily. A laugh bubbled up—ridiculous, really—but then she shifted the angle slightly, just to see.
The nozzle grazed her inner thigh, and her knees almost gave out. The sensation wasn't water anymore—it was something alive, insistent, mapping every nerve ending she'd never bothered to name. Her back hit the tile as her legs trembled, the showerhead still clutched in her white-knuckled grip. She should move it away. She really, really should.
Her breathing loudly as she dragged the pulsating stream higher, hesitating just below the crease of her hip. The heat between her legs had nothing to do with the shower temperature now. Curiosity won. One jerky adjustment, and—Christ—the spray hit dead center. Her head snapped back against the wall with a thud. Biting lower lip as her free hand scrambled for purchase on the wet tiles. It was too much. Not enough.
The rhythm matched her heartbeat, fast and erratic. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, trapping the sensation, amplifying it until her toes curled against the porcelain. A whimper escaped—embarrassing, raw—but there was no one to hear. Just the hiss of steam and the relentless thrum against slick skin. She'd touched herself before, furtive and frustrated under covers, but this was different. This was the shower head's doing, not hers. Easier to blame the trembling in her belly on water pressure.
Her fingers slipped on the chrome as she angled it just slightly to the left, and suddenly her vision blurred. The tiles swam, her knees buckled, and she barely kept upright by bracing an elbow against the wall. A sound tore from her throat—half gasp, half sob—as her hips jerked forward, chasing something she couldn't name. Every pulse sent electricity up her spine. The spray blurred the line between pleasure and pain, and god, she wanted both.
Then the world fractured. White-hot sparks behind her eyelids, her back arching off the wall as her thighs clamped around nothing. The showerhead clattered against the floor, forgotten, while wave after wave rolled through her, leaving her gasping. Her legs gave out entirely this time, knees hitting wet tile with a smack she'd feel tomorrow. Steam curled around her crumpled form, the water now lukewarm where it hit her heaving shoulders.
Emily pressed her forehead to the cool tile, lungs burning. Her pulse hammered in places she'd never noticed—inside her wrists, behind her knees. She should move. The water was going cold, and her parents could be home any minute. But when she tried to stand, her legs shook like she'd just run another mile. A shaky laugh escaped. Who knew? All those nights spent wondering what the fuss was about, and it took a goddamn showerhead to show her. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked different now—flushed in places that had nothing to do with exertion. She reached for the tap, fingers still unsteady. Maybe she'd run again tomorrow.
She took the final turn onto her street, lungs aching, sweat trickled down her temples, pooling at the collarbones exposed by her top. Her cheeks burned—not just from exertion, but from the occasional glances she caught from passing cars. At nineteen, she still wasn’t used to the way people looked at her, even when she felt anything but desirable in sweat soaked workout clothes.
The front door creaked as she shoved it open, greeted by the quiet hum of an empty house. Her parents were out—some charity thing, she vaguely recalled—leaving her alone with the aftermath of her run. The cool air inside prickled against her damp skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. All she wanted was to peel off her clothes and stand under hot water until her muscles stopped screaming.
Upstairs, the bathroom door clicked shut behind her. She caught her reflection in the fogged-up mirror—flushed face, tangled hair, the faint outline of ribs beneath her skin. The new showerhead gleamed from its perch, a sleek chrome upgrade her dad had bragged about last weekend. "High-pressure," he'd said, like that was supposed to mean something to her. Emily turned the knob, letting steam flood the room before stepping under the spray.
The first blast of water pressure was strong, but she didn't flinch—just stood there, letting it massage her shoulders red. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment, not in any context. The water sluiced down her narrow frame, tracing the sharp angles of her hips, the flat plane of her stomach. She squeezed shampoo into her palm, scrubbing at her scalp while her other hand drifted absently over her body—a habit, really, no different than adjusting her ponytail mid-run.
Then she reached for the detachable showerhead. The moment her fingers curled around it, the pulse nearly knocked it from her grip. Emily gasped—not at the force, but at the sudden thrum against her palm, a vibration so deep it made her curious. She aimed it experimentally at her thigh and watched the skin ripple under the barrage, her muscles twitching involuntarily. A laugh bubbled up—ridiculous, really—but then she shifted the angle slightly, just to see.
The nozzle grazed her inner thigh, and her knees almost gave out. The sensation wasn't water anymore—it was something alive, insistent, mapping every nerve ending she'd never bothered to name. Her back hit the tile as her legs trembled, the showerhead still clutched in her white-knuckled grip. She should move it away. She really, really should.
Her breathing loudly as she dragged the pulsating stream higher, hesitating just below the crease of her hip. The heat between her legs had nothing to do with the shower temperature now. Curiosity won. One jerky adjustment, and—Christ—the spray hit dead center. Her head snapped back against the wall with a thud. Biting lower lip as her free hand scrambled for purchase on the wet tiles. It was too much. Not enough.
The rhythm matched her heartbeat, fast and erratic. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, trapping the sensation, amplifying it until her toes curled against the porcelain. A whimper escaped—embarrassing, raw—but there was no one to hear. Just the hiss of steam and the relentless thrum against slick skin. She'd touched herself before, furtive and frustrated under covers, but this was different. This was the shower head's doing, not hers. Easier to blame the trembling in her belly on water pressure.
Her fingers slipped on the chrome as she angled it just slightly to the left, and suddenly her vision blurred. The tiles swam, her knees buckled, and she barely kept upright by bracing an elbow against the wall. A sound tore from her throat—half gasp, half sob—as her hips jerked forward, chasing something she couldn't name. Every pulse sent electricity up her spine. The spray blurred the line between pleasure and pain, and god, she wanted both.
Then the world fractured. White-hot sparks behind her eyelids, her back arching off the wall as her thighs clamped around nothing. The showerhead clattered against the floor, forgotten, while wave after wave rolled through her, leaving her gasping. Her legs gave out entirely this time, knees hitting wet tile with a smack she'd feel tomorrow. Steam curled around her crumpled form, the water now lukewarm where it hit her heaving shoulders.
Emily pressed her forehead to the cool tile, lungs burning. Her pulse hammered in places she'd never noticed—inside her wrists, behind her knees. She should move. The water was going cold, and her parents could be home any minute. But when she tried to stand, her legs shook like she'd just run another mile. A shaky laugh escaped. Who knew? All those nights spent wondering what the fuss was about, and it took a goddamn showerhead to show her. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked different now—flushed in places that had nothing to do with exertion. She reached for the tap, fingers still unsteady. Maybe she'd run again tomorrow.
1ヶ月前
