The guest bathroom is larger than your bedroom at home, and much cleaner. Even after days of tentative use, every surface still gleams in spotless contrasts of black, white, and chrome. The glossy marble counter is far too large for your meager collection of bargain store makeup and moisturiser, the garish plastic shades tackily out of place in their surroundings. A little more appropriately, the counter also contains a neatly folded black dress with gold jewellery and a clear wristphone neatly piled on top.
Your off-white underwear lies discarded on the floor in a trail from the counter to the glass wall of the shower that runs the length of the room. The glass is clouded and running with condensation, the shower stall thick with a fog of steam that makes your bitten-off groans somehow muted.
You still feel bad about making noise, especially in this room where it echoes so readily, and it seems like the entire world might hear. But it feels so damn good. The oily and fruity smell of body wash is still thick in the air, your body-wash slick hands glide in circles over the glistening skin of your breasts, fingers running over smooth skin and the pebbled, aching hardness of your nipples, twisting almost painful need into sweetest joy, each wave filling your chest and shaking your shy voice out of you.
How does it feel this good? Your nipples are normally sensitive, but fucking hell! Just touching them with your own hands feels better than it has any right to, and it’s impossible to stop your wet touch gliding over and over and over you. You're breathing hard, the steamy air wet in your mouth and heavy around your trembling body, the sound of the water almost covering your voice-edged breaths. With effort and promises of more to come you force your hands to pause, shivering fingertips pausing on your nipples, and with a steadying breath, you squeeze.
The noise you make startles you, the moan choked off into a gasp as your head spins and you fall onto the wall, face pressed open mouthed into the arm that props you up.
Okay, what the fuck was in that liquid?
The unidentified parts of the ‘mostly milk’ are having a pronounced effect on you, and you think not for the first time that you should be worried, should be calling emergency services, be calling Desyre - but that last thought makes your whole body freeze.
What if you called her? She said to call if you weren’t okay. If you needed help. Needed her. What if…?
Your heart is racing, but not for the worry you can’t make yourself feel. You bite your lips, let the hand still on your breast give another careful squeeze. You’re ready for it now but you still bite your arm hard enough to hurt, your voice caught in your throat as you massage your palm against your breast, as the feeling builds and builds and is so damn good - and yet still not enough. The better it feels the more it stirs the aching need lower down, your hips writhing with it, like you're trying desperately to squirm your way out of the unbearable pleasure that’s not happening on your cock.
If your breasts feel this good… your heart races with equal parts excitement and trepidation at the prospect of more, felt thudding against your palm as you cradle your breast. After more than a few false starts, you manage to drag your hand free of your chest. Your fingertips glide lower down your stomach, sinking into the guiding groove of your hips, shivering as they draw closer, closer, feather-light as they just barely touch your taut skin. Your whole body is shaking as you let your half-touch encircle that aching tenderness, cautiously gripping, then carefully moving your grip -
“Fuck! Hmn, hmng,” even with your hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your outburst, you’re sure that first raw word was loud enough that the house would have heard you, leaving you listening to the tense silence of a house you know is empty. If you thought your nipples were impossibly sensitive, stars, that slightest movement of your cock had been - your hips shudder with just the remembered feeling, your hand tentatively leaving your open mouth, moving down and trying to touch you again, recoiling from making contact. Your body seems unsure if the intensity you felt was pain, your hand flinching away from touching you, even though you know it wasn’t fucking pain! Fuck, how should, how could, gah if only… you close your eyes, take a long, deep inhalation of steam. And when you open your eyes, you see Desyre standing right before you, smiling mischievously.
Wait, that’s wrong - you’re leaning with one arm against the wall, so she physically can’t be standing in front of you. Quickly your imagination adjusts to place her kneeling before you, looking up at you with those pale blue eyes full of anticipation, the image making your heart leap. And, and you’re both in the shower, so she should be naked, her pale skin glistening in the steamy air, nowhere paler than around her glowing white tattoos. Their thin lines encircle her shoulders, tracing her slender muscles before curving in and over her collarbones. That part must have hurt. But maybe not as much as when the inked lines curved down lower, her pale skin becoming white as the lines whorled out again under and around her small breasts. The lines become thinner as they spiral inwards, tracing one last delicate ring around the pink shapes of her areolae, the tips of her nipples dimpled inwards. Her ‘little secrets’ she’d called them, only found by those that went looking for them.
Is it normal for you to know what your roommate’s nipples look like? It had been enough of a shock when she answered your polite enquiry about her first tattoo session by her whipping her top off, the thin lines a little red over her collarbones, stopping before they reached her bra. The next time she’d whipped off the bra too.
You’d wanted to be a good friend, to support her and reassure her that an expensive and painful procedure had been well worth it, that it looked good, really good! You’d tried to tell her so, awkwardly and without going too far and making it weird, but she kept asking you for more details. She’d wanted to know how it looked good, tracing one finger along the swirls and spirals as she looked at you with big eyes, asking you if the tattoos emphasised the shape of her breasts. If people liked girls with lumitattooed breasts. If you did. If you wanted to help her apply the healing cream.
You feel hot even thinking about it now, along with the heavy, shivering guilt of indecision. I’d stammered an excuse about work and left, and the next time you’d seen her it was like it had never happened. Like she wasn’t sad, like you weren’t, like you didn’t regret so fucking much just being honest with her and telling her that -
“They look fucking amazing,” you finally say to your imagined Desyre.
She raises a dark eyebrow. “What do?” Between her sly tone and her cheeky half smile, you know she knows. She’s just making you say it.
“Your - your breasts, they look amazing, are amazing, you’re amazing and you’re so hot it hurts and I every time I see you my heart sings because I love you and -” you cover your mouth, squeeze your eyes tightly shut, feeling the heat of tears behind closed lids.
“Shhhh,” you hear her say, now earnest and caring as she promises you, “I feel the same.”
And with four words she’s stopped the sickening guilt and doubt and worry in your chest, turning it to hope so fierce you fear it’ll shatter if you speak too loudly. “You do?”
“I do - I think your breasts are hot too.”
You laugh despite yourself, opening your eyes to see her smile hovering beside your breast, lips parted, pale eyes staring up at you. “May I?”
“Please,” you watch as her lips press against you, into you, kissing your skin so gently you can scarcely feel it. You watch in heady awe as she kisses closer and closer to your nipple, closer, stopping close enough you should feel her breath on you. She must be holding her breath, holding the moment, staring up at you with that cheeky smile now parted over you. Her lips draw inwards to kiss you.
You cry out, your own slippery fingers feeling like lips either side of your nipple, your wet fingertip slick as a tongue tracing lazy circles around you, flicking a startled cry out of you and a giggle from her, collecting together again to feel like lips pressing and sucking.
You can’t help making noise now, cursing and crying out as your nipple is sucked again, and again, looking down and seeing your hand holding her head against you, every detail vivid, fingers running through her wet hair, tattoos glowing on her shoulders and the groove of her back tracing all the way down her to the imagined curve of her pale ass. Gods you want to know what that looks like, what all of her looks like, want to really feel her sucking your breast and gently bringing in teeth to squeeze.
“Fu-uck!” you don’t let her ask if that’s okay, holding her more firmly against you, feeling her testingly using her teeth to squeeze sharp bliss into you again. “Fuck, more, more please please more!”
She knows exactly what you’re asking for, as you feel your hand, her hand running down your side, fingertips tracing the groove of your hips, sliding confidently onto your shaking cock, wrapping snugly around it, moving.
Your previous shyness is forgotten, your lips open and screaming against the tiled wall as you feel her mouth sucking your breast and her hand pumping your cock steadily and firmly, completely and blissfully beyond your control. It doesn’t matter how good it feels, that it’s so much more than you can take, than you can barely stand, barely hold on, because Desyre’s the one doing it, keeping you safe and guiding you relentlessly towards the most unstoppable orgasm you’ve ever felt coming!
“God, please Desy - fuck,” you gasp for air, almost sobbing now, “Fuck! I - I lo - I love you!” And despite everything you feel, everything you want, everything you can’t stop rushing closer, it’s Desyre’s sweet voice that pushes you over the edge with just four words.
“I love you too.”
You wail, your voice exploding in a long and broken cry, punctuated by your whole body clenching all at once as your orgasm overflows in time with your voice, once, twice, three times and it just keeps rising, rising, oh fuck - your body spasms and lurches forwards, leaving you trembling with both hands braced on the wall. You’re still shuddering rhythmically in the most intense aftershocks, the fading pleasure still so much more than you can take, yet so much less than it could have been if she’d kept going just a moment longer. But fuck it felt good!
You just stand there, collapsed and breathing hotly against the wall. “Hah, huh. Fuck!” is the only way you can describe it, another shudder making you giggle madly before Desyre can make a comment about your eloquence. You're smiling so much it hurts and you couldn’t care less, joy and a need to share it overpowering your groaning muscles as you push yourself off the wall so you can kneel down and kiss the living hell out of -
She’s not there. No-one's there. You’re alone.
You hear a muted buzzing sound, realise it’s your wristphone vibrating atop the dress on the counter. A heavy shower door and a few unsteady steps later you're holding the wristphone, pressing with a wet finger to display a rounded-edged rectangle above it, roughly the size of a face, showing two words:
‘Desyre calling…’.
You watch the blinking words, and keep watching them until the ringing stops.
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