Showers and Strawberries
♦ Such a long week and so devoid of release. One little cog jams and suddenly, no sweet and soaring sex for me. Nothing but tantalising teases and the little preludes that normally swell into full-blown symphonies. A long, long week with no sex but plenty of sexuality, plenty of seduction, plenty of sinful talk and sensual snaps. It’s enough to drive a girl wild.
The frustration is immense. I can’t have what I want. I can’t dive into delirious and furious fucking. No throbbing cock ready to fill me up, no scratching and clawing and just taking what I need. And I need it. It’s all building up, up, up and something’s got to give. Pictures and words and sensations fill my head and the dull ache between my legs nags, refusing to go away.
A little ball of want.
The week ends and I return home weary but with naughty thoughts whispering in my head. Earlier I had wished I could just reach down my knickers and stroke the flesh that lies there, but circumstances had got in the way. Soon, I had thought, soon I’ll be free to do whatever I like to myself. Now here I am.
The perfect remedy for the hours upon hours of workaday life: a hot and steamy shower. I step in, my body tired and dragging with it a banality I’d hoped to leave at the door. With relief, I feel cascades of water hitting me, sloughing off the dust and dreariness, but leaving the tight feeling in my clitoris, now sharp as a whip. As I become clean and fresh, my energy rises and I reach for something soothing to slather myself in.
Strawberries. An ideal scent for filling my nostrils as I luxuriate in steam, self-indulgence and thoughts of you.
I cover myself in a strawberry slickness, stepping out of the stream so that it lingers on my naked body, a sweet pink liquid decorating my breasts, belly and thighs. Imagining the touch of your skin, I begin to stroke my own.
I run a hand down my thigh as the other lays momentarily upon my breast before beginning to explore it fully. I rub the strawberry gel into my skin as I imagine your hands, your gaze upon my increasingly excited and aroused body. When I have smoothed every bit but the last of the strawberry into my skin, I stop for a moment, listen to the heavy gush of the hot water and imagine in it your hot little breaths, your sighing gasps, your whispered curses and exultations.
The last of the strawberry has a special destination. I gather it up before snaking my hands one by one between my flushed-pink legs. Often I’ve enjoyed the feel of the slipperiness there as I wash myself, but now I know I’m going to make full use of it. With the heat of the water at my back, I stroke strawberry into every fold and crevice, sliding my fingers again and again over my pussy. You’re in my head as I run my fingers hand-over-hand between my thighs, my warm, wet sex pulsing with the clean-yet-dirty feel of the silky-smooth liquid.
I work myself into a frenzy, gasping as your most wicked words echo in my ears. My clitoris is full to bursting of frustrations waiting to be let loose.
I turn, plunging myself back into the water, planting my feet firmly at the sides of the shower, spreading my legs and holding on tight to the shower with one hand. Images of you deluge as surely and relentlessly as the water itself as I move the fingers of my right hand up from my folds and to my clitoris. You’re a slideshow. A zoetrope of lust. For now, at least, you’re an avatar of sex itself and I will prostrate myself at your altar.
My fingers work furiously at my clit, stroking the warm, sodding skin into ecstasy as all the tightness of a week’s torturous deprivation coils up ready to explode and dissipate. I hold on tight, the scent of strawberries mingling with my own, and I tumble shakingly into the first orgasm. Your skin, your fingers, your breath, your lust, my imagination bringing them to life and wrapping them around me, on me, in me.
I shudder, my orgasm racing through my body from clit to cunt and finger to toe. As it fades, I gasp. Before long I am cascading into another climax, stronger than the last, making my knees wobble. I hold on for dear life, nearly wrenching the shower contraption from the wall. As this second orgasm floods my body, I feel the last of the tightness and tiredness and tortuousness of my frustrations escape me. I needed this.
I needed to lose myself in a world of wetness, heat, sinfulness and strawberries and come out the other side fresh and shaking. Two warmths pulse through me now: that of the heat and that of post-orgasmic bliss. As thoughts of you lift from me like a broken spell, I blink and wake as if from slumber.
I turn off the shower and re-enter the world.
The scent of strawberries follows me for the rest of the evening… ♦
♦ This story now has its very own related HNT of me here. Two pictures of my breasts both pre-shower and all lathered-up. ♦