back of the fridge
I grin to myself, a chuckle pushing past my lips before I rise from the bench. Hands in my pockets, I stroll into the calm, breezy night, the moon my only guide, and consider what the hell I’m going to do about a certain beautiful Theatre girl.
DESSIE
The water in the shower is just perfect, turned up almost too hot, bathing my skin in its liquid fire. His face is still burned into my brain. His breath touches my skin like we’re still trapped five zillion feet above the stage in that shaky metal basket. I can imagine it so vividly, so I think, why not go for it?
I slide a slippery hand over my breast.
“Oh, God,” I can’t help but moan.
If he were in this shower with me, it’d be as tight a squeeze as standing in that rickety basket. I can see the water soaking his shirt, picturing it in so much detail, it’s like he’s really here with me. The more the water drenches him, the more his firm muscles reveal themselves.
My nipples are so sensitive. I can’t stop moving my hand over them, up and down, then in circles.
“Fuck,” I breathe, quivering.
The water is almost too hot to bear, and so is he. My fingers run lower, tickling down my stomach. I keep myself on edge, anticipating the sensation I want to feel so badly. I deliberately take my time, torturing myself. My fingers are Clayton’s. My touch is Clayton, evilly crawling his fingers down my body too slowly.
“You’re so bad,” I whisper into the water, echoes of my own voice hissing all around me in the white noise of the shower. “You’re so, so bad.”
Then my slippery hand plunges between my legs. No muzzle or hand or gag can possibly hope to snuff out the moan that escapes my trembling lips now.
Clayton Watts is down there working a cruel sort of magic on me.
“Don’t stop,” I beg him.
He doesn’t. My fingers that are his fingers start to move quicker. I sway so badly, I catch a stream of shower water in my gaping mouth. One hand down below, I keep a set of fingers working my increasingly sensitive nipples. I’m so horny I feel sick. My insides are coming undone fast. I know I’m about to come.
Clayton … Clayton wants me to come for him.
“Yes,” I agree, the word turning into a sizzle on my tongue, my face scrunching up in sweet agony. “Yes.”
The impending waves of ecstasy chase up my body as I race over the cliff of orgasm. I lean forward into the wet wall of the shower, face flattened against the tile as I plummet off the edge, my fingers working me into a state of delirium as I moan my release through the steam and the water and the heat.
It’s not often that you can say you feel dirtier after a shower.
I breathe deeply, recovering as I press against the shower wall. I suck in one lungful of air after another, my hands stuck right where they are, half hugging the sensitive parts of my body.
As the thrill of orgasm departs, reality makes a quick replacement of the joy I was chasing, and I realize that I’m all alone. That kiss we shared while we swayed in the air two days ago, it’s already so far gone that I’m having doubts it ever really happened.
Clayton Watts, you teasing asshole. You’re driving me insane. I’m so obsessed with you.
Then, my moment is further stolen from me by a loud knock at the door that leads to my suitemates in the adjoining room, followed by the words, “I need to pee! For the love of God, can you hurry up??”
I kinda thought I was alone. I was so lost in my fantasy, I wonder self-consciously if she heard any of my moaning or whispering dirty things through the noise of the shower.
Shutting off the water, I dry off—which is literally impossible in this tiny chamber that fills up with steam in a matter of five minutes—then dismiss myself to my room wearing just a towel as the desperate, squirming suitemate barges her way into the bathroom. No eye contact is made and my door’s shut and locked before any due awkwardness can ensue. Still, that doesn’t save me from the deadpan stare I get from Sam sitting cross-legged on her bed, who I didn’t realize was here either. Did everyone in the world return to their rooms during the one shower I take in which I chose to get myself off?
No matter, I hide in the closet and dress myself for tonight’s read-through. Even though rehearsals don’t start until Monday, they’ve scheduled a reading of the script with all the cast and some crew heads tonight before we all break for the weekend to learn our lines.
The whole way to the School of Theatre, I find my heart thrumming heavily between my footsteps. I don’t know if it’s because auditions happened last Friday—exactly a week ago today—or if I’m somehow channeling the bold recklessness that a few drinks gave me before I sang my heart out at the Throng.