My Secret Routine in the Shower on Slow Mornings

Masturbating was part of my day, almost as necessary as breakfast. Since I moved into that small apartment near the university on my own, pleasure stopped being something I hid and became a habit as natural as brushing my teeth. I did it every night, without fail. And when the morning gave me free time, I treated myself under the water too.

Living alone changed everything for me. At my parents’ house, pleasure had always been a furtive act, with the door locked and my ear tuned to the hallway. Moving into that fourth-floor apartment overlooking an interior courtyard was like taking off a gag. For the first time I could moan without pressing my mouth to the pillow, walk naked from the bed to the bathroom, take all the time in the world without anyone knocking on the door asking if I was almost done.

I kept, on the shelf next to the shampoo, a soft silicone purple dildo that I guarded like a little secret. It was my accomplice on the days when no one kept me company. Because yes, I invited lovers over on weekends—university guys, and the occasional older man I met in some bar—but my real addiction didn’t depend on anyone. The desire was mine, and I wasn’t willing to condition it on having company. Men came and went; the pleasure stayed with me.

I’m going to tell you about one time in particular, one morning when things, for once, didn’t go like always.

That Thursday I was lucky enough not to have classes. And I really did love those slow mornings: no alarm, no rush, just me and the silence of the apartment. The first thing I did when I woke up was get into the shower, and that day I started with my usual ritual.

I washed my hair calmly, letting the warm water run down the back of my neck. Then I put on a mask to keep it soft and tied it up in a tight ponytail. Back then my hair was black and very long, and I couldn’t stand having it in my face when I focused on my games. Once it was tied up, I lowered the water temperature a bit: just enough for it to feel cold on my nipples, without freezing me.

The drops were part of my routine too. It’s not that I used them as decoration; I felt them like a pair of extra hands. I started by stroking my torso slowly, letting the water run over me. Then I moved my hands up to my breasts, cupped them, and played with my nipples, opening them to the stream so the water would hit them in spurts.

I lowered my right hand straight to part my lips. I traced the smooth, hairless skin with my fingers before opening them to feel the water running between them. It’s a very soft sensation, almost imperceptible, and precisely for that reason it forced me to concentrate, to take in every last tingle. I was always too horny, and at that time I think even more so. It was incredibly easy for me to come, and I could spend hours like that, happily orgasming five or six times without getting off the tiles.

By then I was already aroused enough for my clit to demand attention. I started teasing it, alternating slow and fast movements, lowering my fingers from time to time to check how wet I was. When I felt that thick, slippery lubrication between my fingers, I knew I was ready.

I took the dildo from the shelf, wet it under the water, and brought it to my mouth for a while. Sucking always drove me wild. Sucking, licking, feeling something between my lips was enough to make my cunt start demanding the same. I swear I could feel my pussy throbbing in time with my mouth, hungry, wanting to feel filled.

I licked it slowly, looking at it, playing at imagining it was real. I thought about the last lover I’d had there, about how he had pinned me against that same wall the Saturday before. I thought about things I had never told anyone, scenes that existed only in my head. And all the while, the water kept falling down my back, warming my skin, setting the rhythm.

I pushed it inside all at once. It slid in without any resistance, and then I started my favorite game: alternating seconds of thrusting it in and out with circles on my clit. And my left hand, you ask? With it I squeezed one ass cheek, pulled it apart, and stroked the back entrance with the tip of my fingers. The arousal tightened my whole body, and keeping myself open that way made me even hotter.

The moment I slipped the tip of one finger back there, my hips moved on their own. I always went crazy when someone touched my ass, and going over all the things that turned me on was like leafing through an album of my fantasies and memories. The moment came when my pussy demanded all my attention, so I leaned back against the wall so I could drive the dildo in harder and faster.

I had to spread my legs and bend my knees a little. I didn’t feel glamorous or sexy at all; I felt like an animal, pure lust without adornment, a bitch in heat who needed to satisfy herself by any means necessary. With my left hand I squeezed my tits while with my right I fucked myself so hard my wrist started shaking, on the verge of cramping.

Yes, like that, don’t stop.

I moaned my first orgasm without a trace of shame, long and open, with my legs trembling under the water and my forehead pressed to the cold tiles. For a few seconds nothing else existed: neither university, nor errands, nor the whole world waiting on the other side of the door. Just me, the water, and that throbbing between my legs that took a while to calm down. It had been delicious, but, as always, I wanted more. I went back to stroking my clit gently so I wouldn’t overdo it, left the dildo inside me, and started another game: one finger slipping in slowly from behind while my right hand rubbed faster and faster.

—I’m a whore —I whispered, repeating it like a mantra, knowing nobody could hear me.

My whole body demanded more, and the reward came: a second orgasm that made me twist and throw my head back. I opened my eyes and looked up, still shaking, and then I saw it.

Through the bathroom vent, right above me, the soles of a pair of boots appeared.

There was a man hanging down from the ceiling.

My heart stopped and raced at the same time. All at once I remembered what I had completely forgotten: that day they had announced they were going to repair the building’s facade. I turned off the shower taps clumsily, my hands slipping, and with the dildo still inside me I grabbed the towel in one swipe. I stumbled out of the bathroom half tangled up, water streaming down my legs and my face burning.

I stayed a long while sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the towel, with water still falling on the other side of the wall and my heart hammering against my ribs. Only then did I take the dildo out and leave it on the nightstand, as if suddenly I were ashamed to have had it inside me. Outside, I could hear the ropes rubbing and the man’s footsteps on the scaffold, oblivious to everything, whistling a song.

I didn’t know how he had seen me, or whether he had seen me at all. I didn’t know if he had managed to look at what I was doing, if he saw me come against the tiles, or if he heard me moaning and calling myself a whore. That doubt haunted me for weeks. Sometimes it gave me a shiver of pure embarrassment; other times, I admit it, the thought that a stranger had seen me in the most intimate and shameless moment of my morning turned me on. More than one night I ended up touching myself with that very image in mind: the boots appearing in the vent, the eyes of a stranger I would never see face-to-face.

But how?, you’ll say to me. What, you love sex, don’t you? Why didn’t you invite him in and that was that? Well, no. First, because I don’t like people who show up unannounced. And second, because that man stole something that was only mine: the chance to keep going, to come a third and a fourth time that morning, at my own pace, on my own turf.

After that I stopped masturbating in the shower. At least in my own bathroom.

Because, I admit it, more than once I’ve locked myself into the gym showers to do exactly the same thing, my heart in my throat and my ears straining for any footsteps on the other side of the curtain. Maybe that’s what that morning planted in me: the idea that the danger of someone showing up, of a stranger catching me halfway through a moan, is exactly what turns me on most. That man never knew what he set off. But that, that other confession, I’ll tell you another time.