(no subject)
Title: Hot Shower, Cold Comfort
Author: mina_kat9
Theme/Set: 25_crimes CI 22:Cold Comfort,smut_69 #54 Self Love
Rating:NC 17, Mature, whatever explict sex requires
Claim (+ additional character(s)): Alex Eames (w/ other)
Warning: Some mention of rough sex/blood play
Summary: A moment alone (Note, I'm taking a decidedly AU approach for this claim. So don't freak. Or, do, 'cause it's pretty freaky, really.)
We’ve been here days now and will be here at least a few days more. He’s not sleeping. We aren’t talking. And we sure as hell aren’t fucking. None of it is healthy. I’m not sure any of it is helping anymore. Doesn’t feel like it’s getting worse, which is something.
Right?
No, I don’t believe that either. What I know is I’m starting to go slightly buggy myself. I lived for a couple years after Matt died with no sex at all. Almost all of the first year was with nothing at all. No other body next to me and not even my own hands to keep me company. Almost a year and no sexual release at all. With one highly notable exception, nothing.
Then I picked up a man in a bar and fucked him in my car. I wasn’t me. I was one of the girls I play at work. It wasn’t the best sex-that’s Jimmy. And it wasn’t the worst-that would be Matt. It was ok. Perfectly serviceable, illicit sex. For a few years after that I had a pattern. Me, booze, and scrambling in back seats and hallways. At least I came. Something about the utterly disconnected nature of it appealed to me. If I never fucked the same man twice, then they would never figure out what a bent and wrong monster I was.
When I turned 39, I stopped fucking around. Figured I should be a grown up or something. Get over wanting all the things I’d wanted for so long. The things I knew somewhere deep down were a part of me. This time at least I didn’t stop touching myself. I guess I didn’t hate myself that much anymore. Or I just didn’t care.
I would lay in my bed, never naked, couldn’t do that, and touch my breasts through the fabric. Sometimes I’d lie there for hours, with the TV turned down low and caress my breasts and belly. Every pass over my nipples made my fingers ache because I wanted to pinch or pull and wouldn’t let myself. No matter what my hands did, my mind had me bound to the bed and heavy hands mauling my skin. Sometimes the hands came from more than one person. I would shiver and moan, working myself up to the point that I could slip my hand between my legs.
Every time it surprised me. Every time I touched myself and found the damp evidence of my perversity I had to stop and remind myself I had a right to touch there. God, what a mess I was. Long minutes spent running my fingers over the lips of my own cunt and I couldn’t bring myself to slide a finger inside. Finally I would open my lips and rub a finger on my clit. Again, never as rough or certain as the hands in my mind. Those hands could find places I didn’t think even really existed. Those hand made my body arch up off the bed and drew long moans from deep in my chest.
Those orgasms were the best I’d ever had. They were the best I could imagine before I met him. Before I felt his hands on me and knew my imagination just wasn’t good enough. Still, they were better than anything in the almost thirty years I’d been touching myself. And I taught myself to relax enough for multiple orgasms, something I’d so rarely managed with a partner. Yes, some day I’ll tell him that and wait for the laughter. He loves how I respond to him and that I’m always ready for him. Doesn’t understand, that man of mine, that it’s him or more properly us, that does that to me.
A month before I met him, I ran into a guy I’d fucked once before. Remembering that he wasn’t half bad, I took him up on his offer of a rematch. It had been too long. I needed to feel another body. Little did I know that when he was doing more than banging a girl he met at a bar, he wanted to be all lovey dovey. A half hour in I called it quits. The growing feeling of homicidal rage wasn’t what either of us was going for. I tried to tell him that I just wanted to fuck but apparently he’d grown past that. I rolled my eyes and pulled on my jeans.
At home that night, my hand between my legs, I pictured a man who would hold me down while he fucked me. Who would tell me I couldn’t kiss him without his permission. After coming twice I cried and curled around my pillow, certain that no one like that existed for me. That no one like that existed period and my dreams of sex that actually did something for me was the ravings of a broken mind.
One night. One dance. Spread back on that damn table. Suddenly my world changed. Maybe there was someone who could touch me the way I dreamed. Maybe there was someone who wanted me the way I craved. That he was dangerous and unexpected was a bonus. Maybe he would kill me and then all the self doubt and fearful cravings could end. Except that I didn’t want to die. And I fought back against him to show him just how much I wanted what he had to offer.
Now he’s sitting on a couch in the other room of a strange place. We are barely speaking and he hasn’t really touched me in days. I don’t think he’s touching himself either, which I know isn’t good. And I’m standing in a shower, reliving my sexual history with my hand on my own throat and the other between my legs. Fingers pump in and out of my cunt so fast my wrist hurts, but I won’t stop. The hand on my throat moves down to my shoulder and I seek the last fading bruise I have. Got that right when we got here and it’s already a pale yellow. I heal too damn quickly.
Further down now to my breast. Now I do what I couldn’t before. I pull at my nipple and pinch the soft sensitive skin on the top of my breast. The only way to keep standing is to lean hard against the wall of the shower and the cold ceramic slows the building tension. The fingers inside me spread making it feel more like his thickness and less like my own puny hands. I scrape my nails over my belly, wanting to dig deep into the skin and leave marks, but I can’t. I don’t want him to see. Instead I bring that hand down and hold myself open so that those puny fingers can move even faster.
If I were alone, or if he were well, I’d moan so loudly he could hear me in the other room. Or I’d just call his name, because he’s what I’m thinking about now. I’m thinking about how much I want his hands. I’m thinking about how fucking good his mouth would feel on my clit and how he’d use his teeth. I’d think about that first night and whimper while I hold him against my soaking cunt.
But I don’t, because he isn’t well. He isn’t himself. And I don’t think he’d take my request for him to bite me and draw my blood very kindly right now. The thought makes me jump though and I shift my second hand to my clit, pinching it and rolling it between my fingers. I’m not breathing right, everything is coming in gasps and whimpers. That spot in my belly, the womb I’ll never use for anything but this release, is tightening. It’s ready, my body is ready.
My head goes back and I slam my fingers in, forcing the issue by making myself wince from the blow between my legs. It’s a good one, one of the honest ones and my head falls back. My body tenses as my cunt spasms and tries to pull my whole hand in. My legs go weak and I have to take my hand off my clit to grab the towel bar and stay standing. Does no good to fall to the shower floor, it’s too cold and all the lovely trembling will stop.
He’s a room away. Doing nothing. And I stand in the shower shaking and imagining his arms around me and his soft voice in my ear telling me he loves me. And as I hear that, I can almost feel his cock rubbing against my thigh, pressing for entrance. This is the moment I ache for, the moment when he’s given me pleasure and now I get to give him his. He’ll say he loves tasting me and feeling me respond, but it’s the sound of him coming that tells me I’ve done my part.
The trembling has slowed enough for me to pull my fingers free and step back under the hot water. He’s had his shower so I can use up what’s left if I want. And there’s plenty. My little brother saw to that when they bought this place. Six men’s worth of hot water for the two of us.
I run my hand over my belly, almost able to feel the rough scars on my husband’s belly. I wonder if he feels it, the way my hands crave him even after I’ve come. Does he know, sitting out there staring at nothing, that I’m in here wanting him? I bring my hand up to my throat again and remember his there. I moan so softly I’m not sure I’ve done it. I miss him.
It takes only a few minutes for me to wash my hair and finish the other tasks that actually sent me into the shower. Turning the water off makes me feel vulnerable. He might hear me and I don’t want to intrude on him. I don’t want to make requests of him, even though I know that’s no good for either of us. We should ask things of each other. We need to ask each other for help and support. Otherwise we did we bother getting married? Why did we make those promises?
I dry off and stand in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror. It’s been too long since I worked out. Too long since I paid attention to my own body’s needs outside of the basics. Neither of us has. Some time today I’ll ask him to help me. To hold my feet while I do crunches or be my resistance for some stretching. No good getting weak.
The hands moving over my body are small, slim, like me. But I feel his hands. And I can hear him breathing behind me. God, I miss him. Even after the orgasm in the shower, my body wants more. My body wants him so badly my mind is putting him there behind me. I sink to the floor, the towel dropping in a lump that ends up somewhat uncomfortably below my hip. The bath mat is thick and soft, though and I let myself lie back. If he’d walked into the room and found me there before the mirror, would he have lowered me to the floor this way?
Not today I know. But we’ve shared so many showers. Shared so many couplings still wet and warm from the water. I shudder and put my hand between my legs. Wet again. Needy again. Aching from the orgasm that had me weak and trembling and from all the ones I haven’t had since finding him on another bathroom floor.
Fear and anger flood me and I put my fingers on my clit almost as an act of revenge. If he would take that from me, take back the gift that he’s given me; I will not let him take this. I will not let him take away the knowledge that I’m not wrong. That I’m not bent. Too many years of hating myself and my body.
I am not gentle. This is not a moment for tenderness. I pinch my clit, pulling on it and wincing even as my cunt fills with new moisture. My other hand moves to a breast and I twist my nipple until I have to whimper. I can’t duplicate his teeth on my neck but I can come close on my labia. Releasing my clit I search for the tiny, tiny scar from when he bit me that very first time. I think of all the times I touched that spot as it healed, worrying it so that it would scar.
My hips are bouncing off the floor, my breath is coming fast, and I know that any moment another climax will hit me. Another climax I’m not sharing with him.
If he came in now would he take me? If he came in now would he look at the writhing woman on the floor and be turned on? Or would he feel pity for me that I was reduced to this? Or, worst of all, would he turn it back on himself and feel disgust that he wasn’t taking care of my needs? Would I be able to tell him that it was all him, that everything I was feeling and doing was out of desire for him? I moaned again, keeping the sound as quiet as I could manage and I let myself imagine what I would do if he did find me.
He would want me, finally, and watch me for a while, licking his lips. He would ask me for a taste and suck the juices from my fingers as I told him this was the second time. That once hadn’t done it for me and I needed him. And then I would beg. Beg him for his cock. Beg him for his hands. Beg him for his teeth at my throat.
I arch up off the floor and grit my teeth. He doesn’t want this now, but I am going mad with need. I pinch and pull and bite down on my lip, anything to add to the feeling of my fingers on my clit.
I imagine him standing there asking if I were ready for him of if he should just let me finish. He would be stroking himself, drawing his cock out and making it hard with those rough, thick fingers I crave so badly. I’d beg, I’m not proud when it comes to begging him for his body on mine. I’d tell him exactly how I want him and how badly. He wouldn’t give it to me, not right away, he never does. I think he must like the way I look when I squirm and pout.
Eventually he would come to me and tell me to stop my hands. Would I be able to or would he have to make me? Would he hold my hands over my head while he pushed his cock into me? Would he press my body into the floor and tell me what a bad girl I was for starting without him? Would he put his hand under my ass and pull me closer to him? Would he, dear God please, growl in my ear and tell me how tight I was and how good I felt? Would he put his teeth to my throat and growl again before finally biting down?
My hand is moving faster now, rubbing and pinching my clit. My hips are flying up off the floor in search of his. Even though I know he’s not there, and that he won’t be, I can feel him above me. I pinch my nipple and whimper. I want him. I need to feel him inside me. I know him so well and he knows me the way no other ever will.
My belly tightens again, this time suddenly. There is no slow build up now, only the sure knowledge that when it comes, this release will leave me breathless. I move my hand down along my ribs and hip until I can reach under my thigh. I have to lift my hip but when I do I get my fingertips just to cleft of my ass. One more wriggle and I can feel my fingers on the sensitive ring of muscle. My fingers speed on my clit the moment I touch it and I know that if he were here he’d be pressing his cock there, telling me how bad I’d been and how this would be my punishment.
What a joke. He knows how much I love his cock deep in my ass. He knows it’s not a punishment. My belly tightens further and I know I only have a moment before it hits. I know that any second I will have to clamp my teeth together to keep from screaming for him to follow me. I have to push back the idea that he is sitting still less than15 fee from me.
I come, my body up off the ground so high I can’t feel the rug against my back, only against my shoulders. Wave after wave of pleasurable pain rolls over me as I struggle to keep from screaming. When they are gone, leaving behind only a wet, shivering woman alone on the floor, I move my hands free and set them on the floor flat beside my body. The towel under my hips starts to hurt and I sit up slowly. I pull the towel out and wrap it around myself, shaking not from the cold but from the endorphins filling my blood.
He won’t come. He won’t know. There is no way for me to tell him that I’ve done this thing. And it doesn’t matter. In the end, masturbation isn’t about him. It’s about me and finding a way to give myself a release I’m not finding elsewhere. I don’t feel shame. I don’t feel guilt. I do feel empty, though. So many years without any connection to another living soul and now I abuse myself when he is a word away. Still, this release would not have felt nearly so good without him. He’s taught me so much. I wonder what else he could teach me if he could get his confidence back, if he could find his way back to himself.
I stand and towel off my hair before dressing in the clean clothes I’ve brought in with me. No parading naked from bathroom to bedroom in search of clothes. No gentle tease where he could smell my release and ask me to tell him about it. No naked. I dress quickly and pull my hair back in a loose bun. No real reason to take extra care, he won’t see it even if I do.
I hang up the towel and open the bathroom door. It takes a minute for him to look up, and he doesn’t smile. He just takes in the wet hair and clean clothes. I smile and nod, then go to get a drink. Two orgasms not 15 feet away from him and there is nothing. No sign that he knew. No sign that he sensed. No sign that he cares.
For the first time since we got here I want a drink.
Author: mina_kat9
Theme/Set: 25_crimes CI 22:Cold Comfort,smut_69 #54 Self Love
Rating:NC 17, Mature, whatever explict sex requires
Claim (+ additional character(s)): Alex Eames (w/ other)
Warning: Some mention of rough sex/blood play
Summary: A moment alone (Note, I'm taking a decidedly AU approach for this claim. So don't freak. Or, do, 'cause it's pretty freaky, really.)
We’ve been here days now and will be here at least a few days more. He’s not sleeping. We aren’t talking. And we sure as hell aren’t fucking. None of it is healthy. I’m not sure any of it is helping anymore. Doesn’t feel like it’s getting worse, which is something.
Right?
No, I don’t believe that either. What I know is I’m starting to go slightly buggy myself. I lived for a couple years after Matt died with no sex at all. Almost all of the first year was with nothing at all. No other body next to me and not even my own hands to keep me company. Almost a year and no sexual release at all. With one highly notable exception, nothing.
Then I picked up a man in a bar and fucked him in my car. I wasn’t me. I was one of the girls I play at work. It wasn’t the best sex-that’s Jimmy. And it wasn’t the worst-that would be Matt. It was ok. Perfectly serviceable, illicit sex. For a few years after that I had a pattern. Me, booze, and scrambling in back seats and hallways. At least I came. Something about the utterly disconnected nature of it appealed to me. If I never fucked the same man twice, then they would never figure out what a bent and wrong monster I was.
When I turned 39, I stopped fucking around. Figured I should be a grown up or something. Get over wanting all the things I’d wanted for so long. The things I knew somewhere deep down were a part of me. This time at least I didn’t stop touching myself. I guess I didn’t hate myself that much anymore. Or I just didn’t care.
I would lay in my bed, never naked, couldn’t do that, and touch my breasts through the fabric. Sometimes I’d lie there for hours, with the TV turned down low and caress my breasts and belly. Every pass over my nipples made my fingers ache because I wanted to pinch or pull and wouldn’t let myself. No matter what my hands did, my mind had me bound to the bed and heavy hands mauling my skin. Sometimes the hands came from more than one person. I would shiver and moan, working myself up to the point that I could slip my hand between my legs.
Every time it surprised me. Every time I touched myself and found the damp evidence of my perversity I had to stop and remind myself I had a right to touch there. God, what a mess I was. Long minutes spent running my fingers over the lips of my own cunt and I couldn’t bring myself to slide a finger inside. Finally I would open my lips and rub a finger on my clit. Again, never as rough or certain as the hands in my mind. Those hands could find places I didn’t think even really existed. Those hand made my body arch up off the bed and drew long moans from deep in my chest.
Those orgasms were the best I’d ever had. They were the best I could imagine before I met him. Before I felt his hands on me and knew my imagination just wasn’t good enough. Still, they were better than anything in the almost thirty years I’d been touching myself. And I taught myself to relax enough for multiple orgasms, something I’d so rarely managed with a partner. Yes, some day I’ll tell him that and wait for the laughter. He loves how I respond to him and that I’m always ready for him. Doesn’t understand, that man of mine, that it’s him or more properly us, that does that to me.
A month before I met him, I ran into a guy I’d fucked once before. Remembering that he wasn’t half bad, I took him up on his offer of a rematch. It had been too long. I needed to feel another body. Little did I know that when he was doing more than banging a girl he met at a bar, he wanted to be all lovey dovey. A half hour in I called it quits. The growing feeling of homicidal rage wasn’t what either of us was going for. I tried to tell him that I just wanted to fuck but apparently he’d grown past that. I rolled my eyes and pulled on my jeans.
At home that night, my hand between my legs, I pictured a man who would hold me down while he fucked me. Who would tell me I couldn’t kiss him without his permission. After coming twice I cried and curled around my pillow, certain that no one like that existed for me. That no one like that existed period and my dreams of sex that actually did something for me was the ravings of a broken mind.
One night. One dance. Spread back on that damn table. Suddenly my world changed. Maybe there was someone who could touch me the way I dreamed. Maybe there was someone who wanted me the way I craved. That he was dangerous and unexpected was a bonus. Maybe he would kill me and then all the self doubt and fearful cravings could end. Except that I didn’t want to die. And I fought back against him to show him just how much I wanted what he had to offer.
Now he’s sitting on a couch in the other room of a strange place. We are barely speaking and he hasn’t really touched me in days. I don’t think he’s touching himself either, which I know isn’t good. And I’m standing in a shower, reliving my sexual history with my hand on my own throat and the other between my legs. Fingers pump in and out of my cunt so fast my wrist hurts, but I won’t stop. The hand on my throat moves down to my shoulder and I seek the last fading bruise I have. Got that right when we got here and it’s already a pale yellow. I heal too damn quickly.
Further down now to my breast. Now I do what I couldn’t before. I pull at my nipple and pinch the soft sensitive skin on the top of my breast. The only way to keep standing is to lean hard against the wall of the shower and the cold ceramic slows the building tension. The fingers inside me spread making it feel more like his thickness and less like my own puny hands. I scrape my nails over my belly, wanting to dig deep into the skin and leave marks, but I can’t. I don’t want him to see. Instead I bring that hand down and hold myself open so that those puny fingers can move even faster.
If I were alone, or if he were well, I’d moan so loudly he could hear me in the other room. Or I’d just call his name, because he’s what I’m thinking about now. I’m thinking about how much I want his hands. I’m thinking about how fucking good his mouth would feel on my clit and how he’d use his teeth. I’d think about that first night and whimper while I hold him against my soaking cunt.
But I don’t, because he isn’t well. He isn’t himself. And I don’t think he’d take my request for him to bite me and draw my blood very kindly right now. The thought makes me jump though and I shift my second hand to my clit, pinching it and rolling it between my fingers. I’m not breathing right, everything is coming in gasps and whimpers. That spot in my belly, the womb I’ll never use for anything but this release, is tightening. It’s ready, my body is ready.
My head goes back and I slam my fingers in, forcing the issue by making myself wince from the blow between my legs. It’s a good one, one of the honest ones and my head falls back. My body tenses as my cunt spasms and tries to pull my whole hand in. My legs go weak and I have to take my hand off my clit to grab the towel bar and stay standing. Does no good to fall to the shower floor, it’s too cold and all the lovely trembling will stop.
He’s a room away. Doing nothing. And I stand in the shower shaking and imagining his arms around me and his soft voice in my ear telling me he loves me. And as I hear that, I can almost feel his cock rubbing against my thigh, pressing for entrance. This is the moment I ache for, the moment when he’s given me pleasure and now I get to give him his. He’ll say he loves tasting me and feeling me respond, but it’s the sound of him coming that tells me I’ve done my part.
The trembling has slowed enough for me to pull my fingers free and step back under the hot water. He’s had his shower so I can use up what’s left if I want. And there’s plenty. My little brother saw to that when they bought this place. Six men’s worth of hot water for the two of us.
I run my hand over my belly, almost able to feel the rough scars on my husband’s belly. I wonder if he feels it, the way my hands crave him even after I’ve come. Does he know, sitting out there staring at nothing, that I’m in here wanting him? I bring my hand up to my throat again and remember his there. I moan so softly I’m not sure I’ve done it. I miss him.
It takes only a few minutes for me to wash my hair and finish the other tasks that actually sent me into the shower. Turning the water off makes me feel vulnerable. He might hear me and I don’t want to intrude on him. I don’t want to make requests of him, even though I know that’s no good for either of us. We should ask things of each other. We need to ask each other for help and support. Otherwise we did we bother getting married? Why did we make those promises?
I dry off and stand in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror. It’s been too long since I worked out. Too long since I paid attention to my own body’s needs outside of the basics. Neither of us has. Some time today I’ll ask him to help me. To hold my feet while I do crunches or be my resistance for some stretching. No good getting weak.
The hands moving over my body are small, slim, like me. But I feel his hands. And I can hear him breathing behind me. God, I miss him. Even after the orgasm in the shower, my body wants more. My body wants him so badly my mind is putting him there behind me. I sink to the floor, the towel dropping in a lump that ends up somewhat uncomfortably below my hip. The bath mat is thick and soft, though and I let myself lie back. If he’d walked into the room and found me there before the mirror, would he have lowered me to the floor this way?
Not today I know. But we’ve shared so many showers. Shared so many couplings still wet and warm from the water. I shudder and put my hand between my legs. Wet again. Needy again. Aching from the orgasm that had me weak and trembling and from all the ones I haven’t had since finding him on another bathroom floor.
Fear and anger flood me and I put my fingers on my clit almost as an act of revenge. If he would take that from me, take back the gift that he’s given me; I will not let him take this. I will not let him take away the knowledge that I’m not wrong. That I’m not bent. Too many years of hating myself and my body.
I am not gentle. This is not a moment for tenderness. I pinch my clit, pulling on it and wincing even as my cunt fills with new moisture. My other hand moves to a breast and I twist my nipple until I have to whimper. I can’t duplicate his teeth on my neck but I can come close on my labia. Releasing my clit I search for the tiny, tiny scar from when he bit me that very first time. I think of all the times I touched that spot as it healed, worrying it so that it would scar.
My hips are bouncing off the floor, my breath is coming fast, and I know that any moment another climax will hit me. Another climax I’m not sharing with him.
If he came in now would he take me? If he came in now would he look at the writhing woman on the floor and be turned on? Or would he feel pity for me that I was reduced to this? Or, worst of all, would he turn it back on himself and feel disgust that he wasn’t taking care of my needs? Would I be able to tell him that it was all him, that everything I was feeling and doing was out of desire for him? I moaned again, keeping the sound as quiet as I could manage and I let myself imagine what I would do if he did find me.
He would want me, finally, and watch me for a while, licking his lips. He would ask me for a taste and suck the juices from my fingers as I told him this was the second time. That once hadn’t done it for me and I needed him. And then I would beg. Beg him for his cock. Beg him for his hands. Beg him for his teeth at my throat.
I arch up off the floor and grit my teeth. He doesn’t want this now, but I am going mad with need. I pinch and pull and bite down on my lip, anything to add to the feeling of my fingers on my clit.
I imagine him standing there asking if I were ready for him of if he should just let me finish. He would be stroking himself, drawing his cock out and making it hard with those rough, thick fingers I crave so badly. I’d beg, I’m not proud when it comes to begging him for his body on mine. I’d tell him exactly how I want him and how badly. He wouldn’t give it to me, not right away, he never does. I think he must like the way I look when I squirm and pout.
Eventually he would come to me and tell me to stop my hands. Would I be able to or would he have to make me? Would he hold my hands over my head while he pushed his cock into me? Would he press my body into the floor and tell me what a bad girl I was for starting without him? Would he put his hand under my ass and pull me closer to him? Would he, dear God please, growl in my ear and tell me how tight I was and how good I felt? Would he put his teeth to my throat and growl again before finally biting down?
My hand is moving faster now, rubbing and pinching my clit. My hips are flying up off the floor in search of his. Even though I know he’s not there, and that he won’t be, I can feel him above me. I pinch my nipple and whimper. I want him. I need to feel him inside me. I know him so well and he knows me the way no other ever will.
My belly tightens again, this time suddenly. There is no slow build up now, only the sure knowledge that when it comes, this release will leave me breathless. I move my hand down along my ribs and hip until I can reach under my thigh. I have to lift my hip but when I do I get my fingertips just to cleft of my ass. One more wriggle and I can feel my fingers on the sensitive ring of muscle. My fingers speed on my clit the moment I touch it and I know that if he were here he’d be pressing his cock there, telling me how bad I’d been and how this would be my punishment.
What a joke. He knows how much I love his cock deep in my ass. He knows it’s not a punishment. My belly tightens further and I know I only have a moment before it hits. I know that any second I will have to clamp my teeth together to keep from screaming for him to follow me. I have to push back the idea that he is sitting still less than15 fee from me.
I come, my body up off the ground so high I can’t feel the rug against my back, only against my shoulders. Wave after wave of pleasurable pain rolls over me as I struggle to keep from screaming. When they are gone, leaving behind only a wet, shivering woman alone on the floor, I move my hands free and set them on the floor flat beside my body. The towel under my hips starts to hurt and I sit up slowly. I pull the towel out and wrap it around myself, shaking not from the cold but from the endorphins filling my blood.
He won’t come. He won’t know. There is no way for me to tell him that I’ve done this thing. And it doesn’t matter. In the end, masturbation isn’t about him. It’s about me and finding a way to give myself a release I’m not finding elsewhere. I don’t feel shame. I don’t feel guilt. I do feel empty, though. So many years without any connection to another living soul and now I abuse myself when he is a word away. Still, this release would not have felt nearly so good without him. He’s taught me so much. I wonder what else he could teach me if he could get his confidence back, if he could find his way back to himself.
I stand and towel off my hair before dressing in the clean clothes I’ve brought in with me. No parading naked from bathroom to bedroom in search of clothes. No gentle tease where he could smell my release and ask me to tell him about it. No naked. I dress quickly and pull my hair back in a loose bun. No real reason to take extra care, he won’t see it even if I do.
I hang up the towel and open the bathroom door. It takes a minute for him to look up, and he doesn’t smile. He just takes in the wet hair and clean clothes. I smile and nod, then go to get a drink. Two orgasms not 15 feet away from him and there is nothing. No sign that he knew. No sign that he sensed. No sign that he cares.
For the first time since we got here I want a drink.