I don’t really like fucking in the bath, although one day I’ll tell you about the most successful bath sex I ever had – long, teasing and achingly slow in a hard way: each stroke like a punishment, which came with a splash of water. The delicious, almost-but-not-quite drowning sensation as my mouth and nose slipped below the water line.
Today, though, I’m exhausted. All I want to do is lie in the bath with the radio on, sink into bubbles and warmth, and have him sit beside me with his fingers in my cunt.
This is what we did the other day.
This is now what I want to do every day.
Until I die or, more realistically, get bored of it – I’m far too jaded now to think anything’s forever.
Not quite bath sex: better
Right now I live in a constant state of either panic or exhaustion. And actually, the exhaustion’s quite nice – it makes a change from my normal state, which involves staring wildly around me in the hope I’ll remember the thing I’ve forgotten, and leaping six feet into the air if anyone touches me. When I’m panicking all my fucks are functional – quick and hard and angry, with my knickers pulled down just far enough to get him in, shoving myself backwards onto his dick when I’m bent over the sofa. Greedy fucks that need to start, happen, and end quickly. The idea of having full-on bath sex sounds more like a nightmare than a dream.
But when I’m exhausted I take things a bit more slowly. I chill out because I have to. I lie in the bath, staring at the ceiling, having a joint and just enjoying the sensation.
Legs spread open, so he can come into the bathroom if he likes. So he can sit and talk and laugh and touch me.
He likes the softness of skin. He also likes wetness. Bubbles are a bonus. He likes all the clichéd things about bathtime – soapy tits and nakedness and the warmth of the water pouring from the tap.
He likes to sit next to me, trailing his hand in the water, dipping it into the warm wetness between my thighs then cupping and bringing handfuls of it to dribble on my nipples.
I like the sensation of cold and hot. Nipples hard and aching in the chilly bathroom, sticking up out of the water. He runs his warm hands over them. Soft, wet, calming.
And I take one more pull on the joint, then I close my eyes.
I hold my breath as he runs his wet hand over my chest. Fingers trailing over my lips and droplets of water running down my chin.
I hold my breath as he moves further down, running the palm of his hand over my stomach and down to my crotch.
He cups me, gently, holding his hand there just long enough that he can enjoy the sensation. And just a little too long for my liking. I squirm a bit to tell him to hurry up.
But he doesn’t.
Because I’m exhausted.
And we’re relaxing.
As his fingers slip inside my cunt I breathe out.
The warmth of the water and the relief of relaxing and the thickness of his fingers sliding tightly inside me… I hang there for a second or two, enjoying the moment they all converge, before squirming against him again. Pressing my clit against his hand, hot from the water, and biting back moans and begging him to fuck me with his hand.
We build from there. And again. Until I’m arching out of the water and he’s splashing water as he fucks me with his fingers – good and hard.
That bath, followed by the hard fuck with his hands: it’s the closest I’ll ever get to being switched off and on again.