I Walked Into the Shower Thinking It Was My Boyfriend

My boyfriend, Damián, lived with his father in a small apartment downtown. Damián worked days and his father, Mr. Rivas, was always on the night shift. Almost every afternoon, when I got off work, I’d stop by: we’d shower together, eat whatever for dinner, and have a quick tumble before his father left for work. Whoever got there first stepped under the water and waited for the other. It was almost always Damián, so I’d go in and join him.

My name is Lorena, I’m twenty-nine. I’ve got brown hair and dark eyes, a round face and a bit of a chubby-cheeked look. I have full lips and a mole right above my mouth that, with my nearsighted glasses, gives me a sweet-but-mischievous air that men seem to like.

A few years ago I became a mother and never quite lost all the weight I gained. But a good part of it went to my chest, so I have huge tits and I’m not complaining. On the contrary, I’m delighted with that part of the change.

I’m telling you this because something happened to me recently that I still can’t get out of my head. I’m writing it here because I can’t tell anyone I know.

***

That afternoon I pushed open the apartment door exhausted, after a ridiculously long day. The place was quiet, like every time one of us got there first. I took off my shoes and walked slowly toward the bathroom. I could hear the water running: Damián had gotten there before me.

That was our routine and I knew it by heart. Strip down, step together under the spray, let the steam loosen the day’s fatigue, and then, before his father left for work, finish pressed against the tiles.

I took off my blouse and skirt in the hallway, let my heavy breasts fall free from my bra, and my panties dropped to the floor. Just imagining him waiting for me already made that familiar wetness build between my legs. I walked barefoot, still smiling, thinking about how I was going to surprise him.

I cracked the bathroom door open without making a sound. Steam hit my face immediately. The curtain was half drawn and, behind it, a tall figure stood with its back to me under the water. I slipped in with the stealth of someone about to surprise her partner with a hug and closed the door behind me. The hot water soaked my skin in seconds.

But that back looked wrong. Different. It was broad in a way I didn’t recognize, the muscles marked by years of hard work, nothing like Damián’s skinny build. Wait. Damián isn’t that tall. My heart lurched just as the figure started to turn. And then I saw him: it was Mr. Rivas. My boyfriend’s father.

I froze in place, water sliding over my whole body, my breasts rising and falling with my frantic breathing. Our eyes met. Both of us completely naked, a foot apart, trapped in that tiny stall.

His gaze dropped and stopped on my tits, on the nipples hardening from the heat and from the embarrassment. Mine dropped too, before I could stop it. His cock hung there, thick and heavy even at rest, the kind you see in movies and instinctively press your legs together for.

—Lorena? —his voice came out deep, surprised, but not angry.

The water ran over his chest and belly, making his skin shine. He was in his fifties, yes, but he was so solid he could have held me up without effort. It wasn’t the gym body you imagine when someone says “mature man.” It was an ordinary man’s body, seasoned, with a belly, thick arms, and huge hands. Broad face, rough cheeks, a double chin, tired but steady eyes.

And his cock. My God. It looked thick and veined. I’m not one of those women who can estimate inches at a glance; to me there are small ones and big ones, and my father-in-law’s was one of the big ones. Compared to his son’s, it looked enormous, easily twice the size. What disturbed me most was how it hung heavy and swayed slowly, like a pendulum, every time he moved.

I crossed my arms over my chest to cover my nipples. Heat rushed to my face and, lower down, a traitorous wetness began mixing with the water.

—Sorry, Mr. Rivas. I thought you were Damián —I stammered, turning to bolt and, in the process, giving him a full view of my back and ass.

But he stopped me. His big hand closed gently around my arm.

—No need to run, Lorena. It’s just a shower. There’s room for both of us. Damián’s on the night shift; he won’t be back until after midnight. I’m not going in until tomorrow. Stay, finish washing in peace. —His tone was calm, almost paternal. But his eyes ran over me again.

I hesitated, gooseflesh prickling my skin. The age difference, everything forbidden about it, had my pulse racing in a way I was ashamed to admit. The water felt too good. Part of me didn’t want to get out.

—All right —I whispered, and grabbed the soap from the dish.

***

My hands were shaking as I lathered myself. The foam slid over my breasts and made them look even fuller. I caught him watching me. And his cock was starting to swell, slowly, right in front of me.

The stall was tiny and forced us to stay pressed together. With Damián that was part of the game; with Mr. Rivas it was something else, something I didn’t know how to name. When I turned to rinse off, his body brushed mine: his thigh against my hip, and then that hot length, already hard, against the curve of my ass. I gasped. He chuckled softly.

—Sorry, Lorena —he murmured in a rough voice, and his cock throbbed against my wet skin—. It’s only natural, seeing you like this. I can’t help it.

I bit my lip. I regretted the words before I even said them, but they came out anyway.

—Don’t worry, Mr. Rivas. I… am in the same situation.

And it was true. I was soaked, and not from the water. My swollen lips were parted, throbbing.

He shifted and his cock bumped against my butt again.

—Sorry. It’s a small space —he said.

But it happened again when he stretched to reach the shampoo: his hard flesh slid along the crease of my ass, the tip grazing dangerously lower for a split second. My clit was pounding. I laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off, but inside I was burning. Is he doing it on purpose? This was wrong in every possible way, and yet my body seemed determined to ignore that fact.

Another shove, this time harder, the underside of his cock rubbing against me from behind. I bit my lip to swallow a moan. My nipples were rock hard and my tits swayed as I spread the foam over my stomach. I kept glancing at him, imagining how he would open me up, how he would fill me in a way Damián never had.

—Let me soap your back —he said suddenly, his voice even rougher.

Before I could protest, he took the soap from my hand, brushing his fingers against mine. The foam touched my skin and his palm started sliding over my shoulders, down my spine. His strong, rough hands spread the soap over my whole body, circling the dimples at the small of my back.

I arched without thinking, pushing back, and his cock settled right against the cleft of my ass. I felt it hot and insistent.

Soapy water ran over my butt and his hand followed it, his thumb barely grazing me. Inside I was empty, tightening, dripping with desire.

I wanted to turn around. I wanted to take his hand and bring it up to my breasts, let him squeeze them, pinch my nipples while his cock pulsed against me. The tension grew with every second: the steam, the naked bodies, the risk that Damián might come in later and smell something in the air. All of it fed the forbidden hunger.

But I kept quiet. A shy heat ran through me from head to toe when his touch lingered a second too long.

—Feels good, doesn’t it? —he murmured, his warm breath against my neck.

—Yes… it feels good, really good —I admitted, my voice barely audible over the water, my head begging for more while the rest of me tried to resist.

His erection kept throbbing against me, rubbing slowly. I arched again, my tits swaying, my nipples hard as stones. Inside I was screaming to turn around and press his hand to my chest. But I held back, biting my lips while the tip brushed me from behind, right at the entrance, teasing me.

***

And then my body betrayed me completely. The afternoon coffee, the nerves, the impossible tension of all of it. A hot stream slipped out of me, splashing his leg and running down the drain, mixing with the foam.

He didn’t even flinch. On the contrary: his grip tightened a little and his hips shifted forward.

—Sorry, sorry, sorry —I said, mortified, not daring to look at him.

—Don’t worry. These things happen —he replied, as if nothing at all.

We rinsed off in absolute silence, not touching again. When we got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist, the bulge still obvious beneath it.

—Take your time, Lorena —he said, and left.

He left me there with the water hammering my burning skin and my fingers dying to slide between my legs and put out the fire that shower had started. But I didn’t. Not yet. The door closed and I leaned against the tiles, heart racing, wondering how I’d managed to hold myself back.

***

Ten minutes later I went into the kitchen. Mr. Rivas was making himself coffee, still in the towel. My eyes went straight to the bulge under the fabric: it had gone down. He was calm, as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, was freshly showered and still felt wet.

—I’m leaving now, Mr. Rivas. Please… don’t tell Damián anything. Please —I said, my voice trembling.

—Tell him what? Nothing happened, Lorena. Don’t worry.

I thanked him, said goodbye, and almost ran to my car to head home. He stayed in the kitchen with his coffee, as if truly nothing had happened. Exactly as he had told me.

And that was what hurt the most. For me it had been huge, something I was never going to get out of my head. For him, it seemed to have been nothing at all. I left there with my crotch soaked and my ego wounded in equal measure.

I don’t need to tell you what happened that night, once I was in my own bed. I touched myself thinking about him, about that shower, about that heavy pendulum swaying a foot from my skin, until I fell asleep. And wishing, against everything I should have wanted, that it had not ended with just a brush of bodies.