The Shower That Made Me Late That Morning

The alarm went off at seven-thirty, and I was already awake on the inside, even with my eyes closed. The first thing I noticed, before I even registered the sound, was the tight pressure between my legs. One of those morning erections that don’t ask permission, that show up while you’re still halfway inside a dream that’s slipping away.

And what a dream. I couldn’t remember the images, only the feeling: skin, warmth, a mouth coming closer and closer, very slowly. I stretched out my arm, hit the alarm button to shut it up, and the room fell silent. I lay there for a moment on my back, the sheet tented up like a little camping shelter, smiling to myself.

I adjusted it over my clothes, almost without thinking, a slow caress through the cotton of my pajamas. Fuck, what a way to start the day. I had to shower and run out the door, I knew that, but my body wanted something very different.

I got up awkwardly, tugged my pajama pants into place as best I could so the fabric wouldn’t pull, and shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom. My apartment was small, the walls thin, and at that hour it still smelled faintly of the coffee I hadn’t made. I shut the bathroom door behind me.

I turned on the tap and waited, leaning on the sink, for the water to stop coming out icy cold. I looked at myself in the mirror as the steam began to fog it up: tousled hair, pillow mark on my cheek, and lower down, the obvious proof that this wasn’t going to be solved with cold water alone. I didn’t even want it solved with cold water.

***

The water was already hot when I stepped into the shower. That first stream on the back of my neck is always my favorite part of the day, that moment when the shoulders loosen and the body understands it’s no longer asleep. I let the heat run down my back for a good while, my forehead resting against the tiles.

The erection still hadn’t gone down. On the contrary: the heat and steam seemed to feed it. I decided there was no point fighting it. I was in a hurry, yes, but some kinds of hurry can wait five minutes.

I grabbed the bottle of liquid soap and squeezed a good amount into my palm. I started from the bottom, not touching myself directly yet, massaging my balls with my soapy hand. They felt heavy, loaded, tense from the whole night of desire building up. My cock gave an impatient jerk, as if demanding its turn.

I took hold of it at the base with two fingers and slid slowly upward, spreading the soap from shaft to tip. The lather made my hand glide with no effort at all, and I let out a long breath, emptying my lungs in one go. The water hit me from the side, just enough not to leave me cold, while the rest of my body stayed sheltered under the spray.

I leaned my back against the shower wall. The tile was warm, slippery, and the position left both hands free. With one I held the base. With the other I began the real ritual.

***

I pulled the foreskin back slowly, uncovering the glans completely, and formed a ring with my index finger and thumb. I pushed my own flesh through that ring until I reached the groove separating the head from the shaft, then slid back up again. Down and up, unhurried, focusing on that exact point where the sensation becomes almost unbearable because it feels so good.

I paused at the corona, circling it with my thumb, spreading the moisture that was already starting to seep out, mixed with the soap. Slowly. No rush. Well, yes there is, but to hell with it. Every time I brushed the most sensitive spot, a shiver ran through my legs.

I began to notice it dripping, that clear, thick fluid that shows up when the body already knows what’s coming. I stopped my hand abruptly. I knew my own game: if I kept that pace, it would last thirty seconds and the party would be over. And I didn’t want it to be over that fast.

I switched hands, but not before giving myself one long stroke from base to tip, a kind of slow milking that tore a tight moan from between my teeth. With the other hand, rested and still slippery with soap, I started again, this time from lower down, covering the whole shaft.

***

I was rock hard. When I looked down, I could see the vein on the top side standing out beneath the taut skin, the glans swollen and a bright pink that only shows when things are serious. I swallowed. The bathroom mirror was completely fogged over now, and the air was heavy with steam.

I started pumping my hand up and down, this time without holding back so much. The sound of the soap, the water, my own breathing getting faster and faster: everything blended into a wet noise that filled the shower. I closed my eyes and let my head drift back into that half-dream, back into that imagined mouth opening for me.

My hand moved on its own, faster and faster. This was no longer just a wank: I was fucking my own hand, driving my hips forward to meet it, as if there were something in front of me other than tile and steam. I opened my eyes for a second and the image of my swollen glans, shining under the bathroom light, made me even harder.

I started panting openly. With my free hand I grabbed my balls, felt them drawn up tight and ready. Fuck, I’m so horny. The heat was starting to gather low in my belly, a ball of tension growing with every movement.

I picked up the pace. Then a little more. My back pressed fully against the wall, my knees started to give, and I could feel I was right on the edge. I felt it rising, that countdown the body keeps on its own. Mmm. I was close. I had it right there.

***

My cock began throbbing against my hand, that unmistakable pulse that warns you there’s no going back. And then I did something I love and that costs me hell to do: I stopped. I squeezed hard right under the glans, holding the spasms halfway there, leaving myself trembling on the exact razor edge between almost and not yet.

It was a delicious torture. My whole body was begging me to let go, my hips moved on their own looking for what I was denying them, and I clenched my teeth to hold out a few more seconds at that point where pleasure turns almost into pain. I held on. Counted to five. To ten.

And let go.

The first jet blasted out with a force I hadn’t expected, so much that it hit the shower screen and stuck there, sliding down slowly. A long moan escaped me without control while the second and third kept coming, thick and white, one after another.

There were six or seven pulses in total, though the last ones lost power and landed on my feet, mixing at once with the water running toward the drain. I stayed braced against the wall, my hand still gripping me, watching the semen slowly slide down the fogged-up glass.

I blew out all the air at once. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath for a good while, and when I emptied my lungs my legs trembled a little, as if I’d just run up four flights of stairs. A weak laugh slipped out of me. What a way to start Monday.

I let the hot water wash the rest away, rinsed the glass with the showerhead, and stood under the spray a moment longer, eyes closed and head completely blank, that stupid, absolute peace that comes after.

***

And just when I was starting to truly relax, reality came back at me.

PUM PUM PUM. Three hard knocks on the bathroom door yanked me out of my trance with a fright.

—Bruno! Get out now, we’re running late! —my roommate’s voice cut through the wood, impatient.

I looked at the waterproof clock stuck to the tiles and my heart sank. I’d been in there almost twenty minutes. Twenty. The dream, the ritual, holding back and letting go: everything that in my head had been five minutes had eaten half the morning.

—I’m coming, I’m coming! —I shouted, turning off the tap in a hurry.

I stepped out of the shower slipping, grabbed the towel, and started drying myself off with quick slaps while I hunted for my clothes with the other hand. The mirror was still fogged, my hair was a mess, and my knees were still shaking a little, but inside I had a calm that no rush could completely take away.

I got dressed in record time, hopped over the puddles on the floor, and opened the bathroom door with a smile I couldn’t quite hide. My roommate looked me up and down, already in his coat and keys in hand.

—What the hell were you doing in there so long? —he asked, frowning.

—Waking up properly —I said, passing him on the way to the kitchen—. Some days need a proper start.

He didn’t say anything else. I poured myself a coffee in one gulp, still warm-skinned and loose-limbed, and thought, yes, I’d be late, but it was worth it. Some mornings ask for exactly that: a long shower, a half-remembered fantasy, and twenty minutes stolen from the clock for yourself.

And honestly, I didn’t regret a single second.