My Filthiest Secret Began in the Shower

It all started with a question that at the time seemed filthy to me. I was chatting with Mateo, a guy I’d met through an app and with whom I still hadn’t gone beyond words, when he dropped something on me that left me staring at the screen with my mouth open.

—Have you ever pissed yourself while you were showering? —he wrote, just like that, without beating around the bush.

I read it twice. How can someone be such a pig?, I thought. I was on the verge of blocking him. But he kept insisting, calmly, as if he were asking me what I’d had for dinner.

—Try it once —he said—. And then tell me what it felt like. Just that.

I told him he was a pervert and closed the conversation. But the question stayed inside me, turning over and over, like those songs you hate and can’t stop humming.

***

The truth is, and I hadn’t told anyone this, it wasn’t the first time the subject had crossed my mind. Something absurd kept happening to me: every time I got into the shower, as soon as I felt the hot water falling over me, I’d get a huge urge to pee. I had to run out, soaked and covered in soap, leaving the bathroom floor a mess, and then go back in freezing. I’d normalized it as just another quirk, one of those weird things about the body nobody talks about.

That afternoon, two days after my conversation with Mateo, I stepped into the shower thinking about anything but him. I soaped myself all over, my hair full of foam, and then that familiar sensation came back. The urge. The water hitting the back of my neck, the sound of the spray against the shower tray, that familiar pressure.

And for once I didn’t get out.

I stayed still, eyes closed, legs a little apart, and let it happen. It was quick, almost silly, a different kind of warmth between my thigh and the water that was already hot. The shower spray washed it all away in seconds. No trace was left. Absolutely nothing happened.

All that drama for this, I thought.

I finished showering, dried myself, and for a while I felt slightly dirty, in the good way, like when you do something you know you shouldn’t and nobody finds out. That same night I wrote Mateo two words: “I did it.”

—And? —he replied instantly.

—And nothing. It’s no big deal.

—It will be —he answered—. Give it time.

I hated that he was right.

***

What I discovered in the days that followed was that he was right about everything. What the first time had been a stupid experiment, by the third or fourth it was already a habit. I preferred that a thousand times over stepping out soaked and then having to mop up the water from the floor. So, almost without realizing it, shower piss became part of the ritual, as normal as soaping my hair.

But then the other thing began. The kink.

One morning I caught myself looking for the sensation on purpose. I spread my legs wide and let the nearly boiling water pour over my head while I let go, feeling the heat run through me inside and out at the same time. Other times I did it with my legs very close together, feeling everything concentrate between the lips of my cunt, the hot stream sliding over my swollen clit before mixing with the water. One afternoon, I don’t know why, I dared to cross my legs, holding myself back until the very last second, and when I finally gave in I had to brace myself against the tiles, my legs trembling and my cunt throbbing with sheer relief.

I’m such a pervert, I thought. But I laughed to myself under the water.

It wasn’t long before I started touching myself. I rested my back against the cold wall, opened my legs wide, and lowered my hand slowly, two fingers parting my lips while my thumb hunted for my clit. I rubbed it in slow circles, with the hot water falling between my breasts and down my belly, and as soon as I felt my cunt start to drip I opened the hot stream between my thighs and pissed over my own hand at the same time as I slid two fingers deep inside myself. Hot piss sliding between my fingers, fucking myself, my clit hard as a pebble under my fingertip… the combination made me come faster and harder than anything else. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, even though I lived alone and nobody could hear me, and I could feel my cunt contracting in spasms around my own fingers. It was a secret even from the walls.

I told Mateo some of the details, just enough to keep him hooked, and he sent my head full of new ideas: that I should stick the handle of the brush inside me, that I should do it on my knees, that I should open my asshole with a finger while I came. I went along with him, sent him blurry photos of the steam on the mirror, of my wet thigh, of my hand between my legs. But the truth is I didn’t need him anymore. The one in charge now was my own curiosity, and every morning I went down to the shower with my cunt already throbbing before I even turned on the tap.

***

And as always happens with filthy things, the day came when it wasn’t enough anymore.

That’s the trap with this kind of thing: what at first gets you nervous and makes your pulse race, if you repeat it enough, turns into routine. The transgression wears off. And then, without meaning to, you start wondering how to twist it one notch further. How to go up a step. I used to wonder about it in bed at night, with one hand between my legs and a stupid smile on my face, knowing that sooner or later I’d cross another line.

The chance came on its own, as good things always do: when you’re not looking for them.

It was mid-morning on a Saturday and I’d just gotten up. I was wandering around the house in some old leggings, those thin, worn-out kind that are almost see-through from so much use, and nothing underneath. I was about to change when the doorbell rang. Long, insistent.

—Fuck —I muttered.

It was two guys from the gas company, coming to make some tariff change or other. They caught me without a bra, my tits moving freely under an old T-shirt, without panties, in those worn leggings that rode up into my cunt crack and left nothing to the imagination, and with no time to react. I opened the door thinking it would be a minute.

It wasn’t a minute.

While one of them checked some papers, the other never took his eyes off me. And he wasn’t looking at my face. His gaze was fixed a little lower, on the exact spot where the thin fabric clung to my cunt, outlining every fold, and every time I moved his eyes followed the motion. It’s obvious I’m not wearing anything underneath, I thought, and embarrassment shot up my neck like a blaze. How humiliating. You can see my cunt lips through the fabric. He knows I caught him staring.

The worst, or the best, was that the guy was insanely hot. Big hands, a sharp jaw, a bulge outlined in his work pants that made me look away with a heat climbing up my chest, a half-smile that appeared every time our eyes met for a second. I couldn’t cover myself without giving myself away. I couldn’t throw them out without looking hysterical. So I just stood there, letting myself be looked at, feeling how that gaze ran over me from head to toe and how my nipples hardened under my shirt until they stood out like little pebbles.

Does he like me?, I wondered, and hated how much the answer mattered to me. Is he hard right now? Is he going to go out to the van and jerk off thinking about me?

And then, right then, I felt it. The usual urge, the shower urge, but this time without water, without soap, without ritual. Standing in my own hall, with a stranger devouring my cunt with his eyes and his coworker a meter away signing papers.

The idea hit me so hard I had to clamp my thighs together, and I felt my cunt suddenly go wet, soaking the seam of my leggings.

***

I didn’t do it there, of course. I’m not that crazy. But the seed was already planted, and as soon as I closed the door I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I got rid of them with some excuse or other. I said I’d think about it, that I’d call, anything to get them out of my hair. The guy with the smile left me a card and held it a second too long before letting it go, brushing my fingers with the pad of his thumb, a slow, deliberate touch that made my skin prickle all the way to the back of my neck. I closed the door and leaned against it with my heart hammering and my cunt pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I was still wearing the leggings. Still had nothing underneath. Still wet between my legs, and now, on top of that, the image of those eyes burned into my head and the memory of the bulge in his pants.

I walked to the bathroom slowly, savoring every step, feeling how the wet fabric of my leggings stuck to my cunt with each stride and rubbed against my clit. I got into the shower just as I was, dressed, with the old leggings stuck to my skin. And I didn’t turn on the water.

I stood in the dry shower tray, closed my eyes, brought back the image of the guy looking at me, his half-smile, the way his eyes dropped without pretending to my slit. And I let go.

The sensation was brutal. The heat of my piss soaking through the thin fabric, pouring out between my lips, running down my thighs, my calves, soaking the leggings until they clung to my body like a burning second skin. Without the shower water to wash it all away, this time I really felt it, every inch, the contrast between the heat flowing down and the cold of the tray under my feet, the warm, acidic, intimate smell rising to my nose and filling the bathroom with myself.

I’m a filthy bitch, I thought, as the last trickle slid between my ass cheeks and down my asshole. A very filthy bitch. But is that really so bad?

I didn’t bother looking for an answer. I ran one hand over the soaked fabric, feeling the heat and wetness through the material, and started massaging my cunt without taking anything off. The wet cloth slid against my clit, and I pressed and rotated my palm in circles, feeling each rub send a jolt up to my nipples. I yanked the leggings up until the seam dug between my cunt lips and my ass, an improvised thong soaked in hot piss, and started grinding against my own hand.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I dragged the leggings up to mid-thigh, without pulling them all the way down, and shoved two fingers into my dripping cunt while my thumb pounded my clit. I was so wet my fingers went in and out with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the shower tray. I thought of the gas guy on his knees in front of me, his tongue buried in my pissed-over cunt, licking me without caring about anything, swallowing everything I gave him. I thought of his hard cock, of how he would have shoved it into me right there, against the hall wall, with his coworker watching. I thought of his face pressed to my belly while I came in his mouth.

The image of the guy, my own transgression, the absurd and enormous secret of what I was doing in my bathroom on a Saturday morning, it all blended into a wave that buckled my knees. I felt my cunt clench in spasms around my fingers, my clit pounding with a life of its own, a new trickle, this time lighter, thicker, slipping between my thighs and staining my hand. I came with my mouth open and no voice, my forehead pressed to the cold tiles, shaking all over. And when I thought it was over, I stuffed my soaked fingers into my mouth and tasted myself, salty and rough, and came again, shorter, drier, almost in anger.

When I finally turned on the water, the hot spray fell over my head and started melting the foam of myself away. Little by little I slid the leggings down, helping them along with the water running off me, until they lay crumpled beside the drain, old, twisted, mute accomplices to my perversity. I ran my hand between my legs, feeling my cunt swollen, sensitive, still throbbing, and kept a finger inside for a while longer, just to feel full while the water carried the rest away.

I stayed under the water for a while, smiling like an idiot, feeling more alive and filthier than I had in months.

***

That night I wrote Mateo.

—You were right —I wrote—. About everything.

—I told you to give it time —he replied—. Do you want to tell me how far you’ve gone?

I stared at the screen for a long while, with the gas guy’s card still on the kitchen table, his phone number staring at me from the cardboard, and one hand idly inside the waistband of my pajama bottoms.

—Not yet —I finally wrote—. This has only just begun.

And for the first time in a long while, I knew it was true.