Interrupted in the Shower—Again

Notes: this was started three years ago,  back before we moved into my in-law’s place to help with the day-to-day and upkeep. It’s now something I’m finishing from memory, having taken place probably a week or so after my story titled Interrupted in the Shower. This was not an easy time for us as we’d received the news nobody wants to hear: his father was losing his battle with cancer, and there was nothing left to be done.

For several days we debated the pros and cons of offering to move in with his parents to help out. They lived in a big, old house that needed a great deal of work, and while I was there nearly daily to help with what I could, it was turning out to be far more than I could accomplish in just a few hours a day. We’d ended the discussion that afternoon with still no real resolution. I’d started supper, our then three-year-old son was watching a movie/playing on the living room floor, and Andrew entered the shower. Which leads us to:

Interrupted in the Shower—Again

I hear Andrew sigh in the shower; that can’t be good. I’m all the way out in the kitchen, fixing up the rest of dinner. Perhaps a little bit of stress relief is in order.

Checking on our toddler to see he’s absorbed with playing, I make my decision. I turn off the cooker and surreptitiously make my way to the master bathroom just down the hall from the kitchen. The door is unlocked, a good sign he doesn’t want total solitude.

The bathroom is a riot of steam, and the mirror is completely fogged over. I can smell Andrew’s apple shampoo. Good. He should be done washing, then. I quietly strip out of my clothes and push back the shower curtain far enough to enter behind him. He’s just standing, arms crossed, letting the spray pound down on his back. With a scowl on his face, he looks over at me.

“Hey you.” I’m trying for sultry. I hope I got it. I lightly squirm up against him. He turns, arms loosening to let his hands fall around my hips.

“Hey.” He sighs, pressing his forehead to mine. Water is obnoxiously hitting my face, but I ignore it.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head, still pressed to mine. I’m about to ask him if he wants me to leave when his hands tighten on my hips, dragging me closer. We kiss slow and deep. Our tongues dance together; no mock battles tonight. Is that the beginning of an erection I feel? I think so.

I can feel the goofy grin on my face when we part. What can I say? I like feeling wanted. And this gorgeous man, for some reason, wants me. Feeling coy, I reach between us to grasp his thickening penis.

“Nuh-uh,” I bat his hand away from its quest to return the favor. “This is all about you, my love.” To prove my point, I kneel down in the tub.

His breath quickens as I pump him with one hand. My left hand is caressing up and down the insides of his legs, going increasingly higher with each pass. God made this wonderful man extremely tactile. He craves touch, anywhere. Everywhere.

I’ve finally reach his ballsack and begin to fondle it as I run my tongue up his length. Wanting to tease him just a bit, I pause at the top for a count of three before fully engulfing him. I’m rewarded with a strangled moan and fingers tangling in my hair.

The minutes stretch around us. We’re in our steamy haven again. Just him and me. We can bicker over possibilities and probabilities another time. Those trivialities can wait. For now, it’s just us in the space we create when pleasure builds between us.

The memory is indelible in my mind: Him tangling my wet hair in his fingers; the wet steam and scent of soap filling up my nose; the musky tang that is purely Andrew sliding along my tongue; his sighs, moans, and strangled groans as we work towards his peak. Several minutes pass like this. It could have been hours for all we cared. I look up in time to lock my eyes with his just before they roll back in his pleasure.

His back bows. Short, shallow thrusts shove him nearly down my throat as my mouth is flooded with the bitterness of his ejaculate. I swallow and continue slow, deep, bobs up and back down his still half-hard penis, swirling my tongue around the head on the upstroke before engulfing as much as possible on the way back down. I stretch his pleasure as far as I can. His stuttering breaths and body jerks tell me it’s good, maybe too good. His penis slithers out of my mouth as he shakily drops to his knees, and I’m pulled into a deep kiss.

We’re mirroring our position from before: foreheads touching, breathing in each other’s air. He’s clutching me tight. I think we’re both crying. I know I am. This isn’t some fairy tale with a happily ever after or a movie where everything gets resolved in the end. It’s real life, and the beautiful moments end up mixing with the ugly ones.

The rest of this memory is less clear to me. We eventually leave our haven, dry off, finish cooking and eating dinner, put our son down for the night, and fall together into our own bed. I’m pretty sure decisions were made that night. No more bickering happened.

There have been many more interrupted showers in the ensuing years. Another one is currently in the works.

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