My hands brushed down my belly and over my pelvis, cupping the mound. Growing brave, I pulled up the fabric of my dress until the hem floated around my hips, like one of the oyster mushrooms I’d seen at the market last week. My fingers slipped in the furrow of my pussy, exploring the ravines on either side of my plump lips.
It was a weird feeling, stroking myself in the tub. Mike’s tub.
At first, the water and the bath milk eased my movements, but then my body began to assist.
It wasn’t that I was a stranger to touching myself—I’d done it before. I’d liked it fine, but it had been purposeless: more of a habit or a fidget than anything with intent. I’d never been able to reach the peak that I’d heard people talk about or seen on that one porn site that was run by women.
This felt nice. My breath shortened and sweat collected at my hairline. A moan slipped from my lips.
But as usual, when things started feeling really good, my brain kicked into overdrive—worrying about how I looked, worrying about how I could never come, and worrying that I couldn’t stop worrying. I tried to lock in on nice memories: Mike with the seat belt, saying, You can take it, Princess, or the guy on TikTok who wore a tank top and ripped bolts of fabric.
Those mental images got me worked up, but I still couldn’t find my way to the edge people talked about. Everything felt like too much, and I couldn’t keep going or reach any kind of absolute conclusion. I was overstimulated, and direct pressure on my clit made me yelp, and not in a good way.
Frustrated and upset, I let out a shout, slapping the water by my legs and splashing it everywhere. Angry tears spilled down my cheeks, and such was my preoccupation, I didn’t hear Mike arrive home.
I didn’t hear him unlock the sliding door at the back of the house, or come down the hall, or push open the bathroom door.
He came into the room and stumbled to a halt, eyes wide.
I froze mid-tantrum and neck-deep in this man’s bathtub with a half-empty champagne bottle beside me. Mike’s eyes locked on my breasts. A downward glance confirmed my nipples were poking out of the water. They were stiff and clearly visible through the drenched fabric of my dress, one dusky areola peeking over the top of my neckline.
“Holy fuck,” he muttered. At the same time, I tried to sink down in the water.
Tugging at my dress, I tried to cover my nipples and pussy with the floating fabric. The water resisted my mission, pulling my dress awry from where I shoved it. I had to choose one part of me to censor, and I chose the downstairs, using two hands to clamp my skirt in place over my thighs.
Mike stood still as a statue in the doorway, his eyes studying my nipples like they were the answer to every question he’d ever thought of.
“Sorry!” he said.
But he still didn’t move or look away.
“I just need tits—no. Not that. Sorry. My wallet.” He cast a useless look to the sink, where his wallet wasn’t.
“It’s in the drawer,” I squeaked.
Tearing his eyes from me, he crossed the room and grabbed his wallet before holding it up to shield his eyes. Carefully, he made his way back across the room and was reaching for the door when he paused.
Wallet still hiding his eyes, he asked, “Why are you wearing a dress in my tub, getting drunk at lunchtime?”
I barked a laugh, a manic sound even to me. “Why not?”
“… Because it’s fucking weird?”
I said what I always said when someone called me that. “Thank you.”
Mike lingered awkwardly, no doubt wondering why he’d let such a weirdo stay in his house. I fumbled on the floor for my phone, turning the music down to a background murmur. Immediately, I wished I hadn’t. The air was heavy and awkward.
“Right,” Mike said finally. “I’m going to go to work. I’ll leave you … to it.”
“Great,” I said, keen to be miserable in solitude. The devil you know and all that.
But something in my voice stopped Mike where he was. Slowly, with enormous care, he inched the wallet down his face, still using it to shield my breasts from view but making enough space that he could meet my eyes. “You okay, Princess?”
“Sublime.”
“Looks like you’ve been crying.”
I was so deeply frustrated—that was my excuse for being rash and following my impulses, even though all they’d ever brought me was trouble. I heaved a big sigh and leaned my head back on the lip of the bath, then confessed to the ceiling, “I’m crying because I’m not coming. It’s a tragedy of alliterative gerunds.”
