My Dirtiest Confession in the Shower

I don’t know when it got out of hand, but that day I woke up with my body burning and my head filled with a single obsession. I opened my eyes with my thighs stuck together from my own wetness, the sheets tangled around my legs, and my pussy throbbing with an almost painful insistence. It wasn’t simple arousal. It was a crude, constant, animal need, as if I’d spent the entire night dreaming of you and my body had decided to carry on by itself when I woke.

I slipped my hand beneath my clothes before I’d even sat up in bed. I touched my swollen, slippery lips, and the moment I grazed my clit, a hoarse moan escaped me, one of those that come out without permission. I started gently, still dazed, rubbing myself in slow circles, but in less than a minute I was already spreading my legs, arching my back, and grinding my hips against my own hand like a desperate woman.

I came the first time so easily that I was actually embarrassed. The orgasm rose quickly, clenched my belly, and left me trembling on the mattress, biting my forearm so I wouldn’t scream. I thought that would make it pass.

It didn’t.

I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and saw a face that didn’t look like mine: heavy eyes, parted lips, tousled hair, the expression of a woman who had already been defeated by desire before she even got up. I wet the back of my neck with water, took a deep breath, and tried to behave like a normal person. I made coffee, served myself something to eat, and walked around the apartment trying to occupy myself with anything at all.

By halfway through breakfast, I was already squeezing my thighs together beneath the table.

The second time was on the couch, with my warm mug still beside me. I slipped one hand inside my shorts and found myself wetter than before. That was what finally dragged me under. I started rubbing myself through the fabric, barely at first, but it got in the way, so I yanked it down. I spread my legs over the edge of the seat, pushed in two fingers, and pulled them out coated in me, shiny and sticky.

Look at you, I thought. You can’t even eat breakfast without touching yourself.

Instead of embarrassing me, it made me even hotter.

I began thrusting my fingers in and out quickly, hearing that wet, dirty sound growing clearer in the silence of the room. With my other hand, I pinched one nipple through my T-shirt until it hardened. I imagined your mouth on my neck, your low voice telling me exactly what I was, and I came again with a dry spasm that doubled me over. I came moaning your name under my breath, my forehead pressed against the back of the couch.

The third time was before noon. The fourth was beside my bedroom window, looking out at the street as if someone might guess what I was doing. By the fifth, my fingers hurt and my clit was so sensitive that touching it was almost a sharp pain. Even so, the desire was still there, lodged between my legs like a fever that wouldn’t break.

The worst part was that I didn’t want just any relief. I didn’t want to simply come and be done with it. I wanted you.

I wanted the way you looked at me. That predator’s patience with which you could leave me talking to myself just by tilting your head. I wanted to remember your messages, the way you could tense me from a distance, the certainty with which you’d told me last time: —When you get like this, don’t hide it from me. Tell me. I want to know how you come undone thinking about me.

That day, I obeyed you late.

I texted you from the bathroom, my fingers still wet. “I can’t stop touching myself.” I sent it and stared at the screen like an idiot, my heart racing. You took a minute to reply.

“Don’t do anything until I get there.”

I read that sentence three times in a row. I felt such a strong tug between my legs that I had to brace one hand against the wall. I told you I didn’t know if I could hold out. Your reply came immediately.

“Hold out. I want to find you burning.”

I spent the next hour shut inside, walking barefoot from the bedroom to the bathroom and from the bathroom to the kitchen, fighting my own hand. Every part of my body begged me to touch myself. The brush of the fabric drove me crazy. The weight of my tits, the heat between my legs, the constant wetness between my lips—everything took me back to the same edge. I tried distracting myself with a shower, convinced the cold water would bring my fever down.

It was a mistake.

As soon as the water fell over me, my whole body stiffened. The droplets slid down my neck, over my breasts and belly, moving slowly and slipping between my legs as if they knew exactly where they needed to touch. My nipples hardened instantly. I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, and began panting purely by reflex.

—Fuck… —I let out, alone, feeling myself lose the fight.

I crouched down, braced one hand against the tile, and let the other travel between my thighs. I was soaked before I even touched myself. My fingers slid over my clit, and I had to bite my lip hard. I began rubbing myself desperately, without care or rhythm, like an impatient slut trying to pull something from her own body that never quite finished arriving.

I dropped to my knees. The water kept beating against my back, my ass, my hair, while I spread myself wider and pushed two fingers all the way inside, curling them the way I like, searching for that spot that makes me see white. I moaned loudly, obscenely, with no one to hear me but the tiles and the water. My pussy made that wet, open sound of pure need.

—Come… —I whispered at first.

Then I said it like a broken command.

—Come here already. Make me yours. Fuck me.

I brought my fingers to my mouth, sucked them, tasted myself, and that turned me on even more. I imagined they were yours. I imagined your hand gripping my hair, forcing me to spread my legs wider, to keep still while you did whatever you wanted with me. I squeezed my tits hard, pinched my nipples, lightly scratched the wet skin of my chest, and felt a complete shiver run from head to toe.

When I came on the shower floor, it was violent. The orgasm clenched my belly, made my thighs tremble, and nearly knocked me over onto my side. I ended up panting, my cheek against the wet tile, water running down my back and my own wetness mixing with it. It should have calmed me down.

It left me worse.

I got out of the shower with shaky legs and an almost ridiculous anxiety. I put on a light robe, nothing underneath, and went to open the door when the bell rang. I already knew it was you before I looked through the peephole. I knew from the way my pussy suddenly began throbbing again, from the way my mouth went dry.

When I opened the door, you came in unhurriedly. You wore that calm expression that undoes me more than any rough gesture. You looked at my wet hair, the robe hastily tied, my bare legs. You closed the door behind you and left your bag on a chair as if you had all the time in the world.

—So you couldn’t wait —you said.

I swallowed. —I tried.

You stepped closer. —How many times?

I lowered my eyes, but you took me by the chin and made me look at you. That simple firmness weakened my knees.

—Answer me.

—Five… —I said—. Six in the shower.

Your mouth curved slightly, not in a sweet smile but in something darker, more satisfied. —And you’re still this wet.

I nodded. There was no point lying. I could already feel wetness running between my thighs again.

—Take off your robe.

I obeyed without speaking. I untied it, and the fabric fell at my feet. Your gaze moved slowly over me without shame, pausing on my tits, my still-heaving belly, the damp hair between my legs. I had never felt so exposed or so eager to be.

—Turn around.

I did. You put one hand on the back of my neck and the other on my hip, parting my legs slightly with your foot. I felt your fingers open my lips with obscene ease.

—Look at this —you murmured beside my ear—. You haven’t stopped dripping for a second.

I moaned. I wanted to move backward, to seek more contact, but you gave my thigh a sharp slap.

—Stay still.

That tone went straight through me.

You led me to the couch with one firm hand between my shoulder blades. You bent me over the back, made me brace myself on my forearms, and spread my legs enough to leave me wide open. I felt cool air against my pussy, then your fingers barely stroking my entrance, playing with my wetness. It was precise, deliberate torture.

—Tell me how you touched yourself —you ordered.

My voice broke. —With my fingers… in bed… then on the couch… afterward in the shower…

—Clearer.

I closed my eyes, embarrassed and aroused at the same time. —I pushed my fingers inside and rubbed my clit thinking about your mouth. Thinking that you were going to come and break me.

Then you thrust two fingers inside me at once. They slid in easily, sinking into me with a wet sound that made me let out an indecent moan. You began moving them forcefully, without tenderness, striking me inside exactly where I already ached with need. With your other hand, you spread my ass cheeks wider, and I felt your hot breath between my legs before your tongue touched me.

It was brutal.

You licked from bottom to top, slowly the first time, as if savoring all of me. The second was firmer. The third made me tremble. Your face was buried in my pussy, and all I could do was cling to the couch while your fingers fucked me inside and your tongue worked my clit with savage precision.

—You were this needy —you said against my skin, without stopping—. This hot, and all alone.

—Yes… —I panted—. Yes, fuck.

You sucked my clit, and I nearly folded in half. Then you spat right there and used that mixture of saliva and my own wetness to rub me faster, harder, your fingers thrusting in and out without pause. My pussy clenched around your hand hungrily, as if it wanted to swallow it. The noise was scandalous. Every thrust of your fingers tore a louder moan from me.

—Look at you —you said—. You can’t even hold yourself up.

You were right. My legs were shaking. I could feel the orgasm rising again, thick, powerful, inevitable.

—Don’t come yet —you ordered.

I tried to obey. I really did. I clenched my teeth, arched my back, tried to pull away a little from the brush of your tongue, but you held my hip and kept licking me mercilessly. When you barely bit the inside of my thigh and pushed in a third finger, I broke.

I came screaming, my body convulsing over the couch, squirting over your mouth and hand. The orgasm was so strong that for several seconds I could do nothing but pant and tremble. You pulled away only far enough to look at me from below. Your mouth was shining, your chin wet, and that image alone almost made me come again.

—You’re so dirty —you said with a calm that drove me crazy.

You turned me onto my back, sat me on your lap, and kissed me. I could taste myself in your mouth. It wasn’t a tender kiss; it was wet, slow, and obscene, your tongue entering as if it wanted to dominate me there too. I slipped my hand beneath your clothes and found you hard and ready. I squeezed lightly, and you let out a restrained exhale.

—Get undressed —I asked, no longer able to pretend I had any patience.

—Is that what you want?

—Yes.

—No. Say it properly.

I looked at you, my face still burning. —I want you to fuck me.

This time, you obeyed. You took off your clothes without looking away from me, and when I had you in front of me, I felt another brutal, almost dizzying wave of heat. You knelt between my legs, spread them wider, and rubbed the tip against my entrance, just to get yourself wetter, just to make me beg.

—Please —I said, incapable of anything else.

—That’s better.

You entered slowly at first, opening me inch by inch, letting me feel the thickness, the pressure, the firm advance that made me pant harder with every moment. When you were completely inside, I lay still for a second, mouth open and belly clenched, feeling you fill me in a way my fingers never could imitate.

—Fuck… —I whispered.

You grabbed the back of my neck and began to move.

The first thrusts were long, deep, measured. You pulled almost all the way out and drove back in with a hard impact that made me bounce against the back of the couch. Every time you sank all the way in, the air left my lungs. Every time you withdrew, my pussy tried to hold on to you. It didn’t take long for the wet, scandalous smack of our bodies finding the exact rhythm to fill the room.

I rode your hips desperately, searching for more. —Harder.

You answered by gripping my thighs and pushing me backward, open and exposed, while you fucked me with a hard cadence that left no room to breathe properly. My tits bounced with every blow. I could barely hold myself up, but I didn’t want you to stop. Everything hurt and felt good at the same time: the pressure inside me, the burning of my sensitive clit, the firmness of your hands marking my skin.

—Look at me —you ordered.

I raised my face as best I could. Watching you move between my legs, your jaw tense and your breathing growing heavier, made me moan again. There was something profoundly obscene about letting you see me so open, so wet, so incapable of hiding the effect you had on me.

You lifted me from the couch and put me on all fours over the seat. I felt your hands part my ass cheeks and then the tip brush against me again before you entered once more, this time from behind, even deeper. I let out a muffled cry. That position left me completely subjected to whatever rhythm you wanted to impose, and you took advantage of it.

You began pounding into me, one thrust after another, without pause. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. I buried my face in my arm so I wouldn’t completely fall apart, but you grabbed my hair and made me lift my head.

—Don’t hide.

You kept fucking me like that, pulling my hair just enough to keep me open, vulnerable, taking all of you. With your other hand, you reached between my legs and rubbed my clit in time with every thrust. It was too much. Too fast, too intense, too perfect for a body that had already come so many times and still wanted more.

—I’m going to come —I babbled.

—You’ll come when I tell you to.

I clenched my teeth, but my legs were trembling as if they were about to give out. You kept driving into me hard, getting wetter and wetter with me, while your hand worked me with merciless firmness. Every circle on my clit pushed me toward the edge. Every snap of your hips left me emptier of thought.

—Now —you said at last.

And I came.

I came so hard that all the tension left my body and I nearly collapsed onto the couch. I felt the orgasm break over me in quick, violent waves, one after another, while you stayed inside me, thrusting a few more times to prolong it. I screamed without any shame. I cried a little, I think. Or maybe it was only water from my hair, sweat, saliva, all mixed together.

You didn’t give me much time to recover. You turned me around, sat me on the edge of the couch, and penetrated me again from the front. I opened my legs automatically, exhausted and willing, and wrapped them around your waist. You kissed me as you moved, slower at first, as if you wanted to savor the wreck you had turned me into. Then you sped up again.

I could feel you getting closer to coming. In the way your hands tightened on my hips. In the way your thrusts became less measured and more urgent. I was still sensitive, so open and wet that every collision drew small involuntary moans from me. I lowered one hand between our bodies and touched myself lightly, just to push myself to the edge one more time.

—Don’t stop —I begged—. Don’t stop, please.

You bit my lip and kept fucking me until your breathing broke. You came with a deep groan, burying yourself all the way inside me and staying there for a few seconds, tense, holding me against you while we both trembled. I felt the heat of your orgasm and closed my eyes, enjoying not only the sensation but the way it filled my head with a thick calm that was finally enough.

You collapsed beside me. We lay silent for a few seconds, breathing hard, our legs still tangled and the smell of sex hanging clearly around us. My whole body throbbed. My thighs were wet, my hair stuck to my forehead, my throat was dry, and a dirty satisfaction loosened even my toes.

I looked at you and began to laugh, exhausted. —Now I can think.

You smiled too, brushing my hair away from my face. —You didn’t seem very interested in thinking.

—I wasn’t.

I fell silent for a moment, feeling the pleasant weight of exhaustion and that residual tingling between my legs that a good fuck leaves behind after hours of hunger. I had spent the entire day on the edge of myself, trying to fill myself alone and failing again and again. Only then did I understand that it wasn’t quantity I was looking for, but that exact point at which desire stops being torture and becomes surrender.

I rested my head on your shoulder and exhaled slowly. —If it happens to me like that again…

—You text me before the sixth time —you said.

I let out another hoarse laugh. —Deal.

And as my body finally shut down, satisfied and spent, I knew that confession wouldn’t be my last. Because there are days when a woman touches herself out of habit, on a whim, or simply because she feels like it. And there are others, like that one, when she discovers herself truly open, truly obscene, needing not only to come, but to be watched, dominated, and fucked until she is finally left empty.