Water Drops and Daydreams
Adam, the shower, sliding water drops and daydreams. My first R-rated story (which I find really scary). Don't read this if you don't like graphic stuff, because it definitely is graphic (I hope in a good way).
Oh my God! I never thought I would write an R-rated story. I so don't do R-rated stuff. But this... well... the other day I was thinking about new fan fiction scenarios, and—ZING!—there it was in my head. Obviously, I cannot speak from first-hand (no pun intended!) experience since I'm female and have not engaged in this particular exercise, nor do I have the "physical requisites" for it. Hope it's not too far off... or disgusting or bold. But it's only natural, right? (Young) Men do it all the time, so why wouldn't Adam? Okay, I know. Oversharing alert! I'll stop now with the graphic stuff.
I don't think I would read it if I hadn't written it myself. How twisted is that? Hope I'm not scaring people away from my other stories. But I swear, this is not what I normally write/think about! But every now and then it can be good to take a dive and try something new, right? Hope I'm not landing a belly-flop here. And please don't worry, I won't keep writing R-rated stuff. I think I'll stick with the more innocent stories in the future...
A thank you goes out to the gals of "Síleas" and their wonderfully enchanting harp music to which I would someday want to make love to to a man I am completely in love with. (I haven't given up hope yet! LOL)
Oh, and of course this is (again) post-Trial and Error. I don't know why I have that insane need in me to write only about post-Bonnie Adam when pre-Bonnie Adam was so much more to be desired for. Maybe he just makes for a much more interesting and conflicting character to explore. No one can be as perfect as pre-Bonnie Adam, right?
This story is rated R and should not be read by anyone younger than 16, possibly even 18. Strong graphic sexual content (although mostly fluff, don't worry). You have been warned!
These characters and settings are not mine. Nor am I claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. I'm not making any money out of this, although I wish I was.
Droplets of water slide down the matt finished plastic divider wall that separates your pale beige tiled bathtub area from the rest of the bathroom. You watch them as they slowly meander downwards, pulled by gravity. Some start slowly, inching forward in slow motion until they join others, round-shaped with a glittering, pearl-like surface. Once combined, they are like a joint force, shooting towards the rim of the bathtub in rapid motion.
Something about the synergy fascinates you and your index finger touches the surface that is opaque from the hot water vapor that emanates from all around you. You relish the wet and hot sensation of the water softly caressing you from above, enveloping your naked body like a warm blanket. This must be what it's like in the womb, all warm and cozy.
You tilt your head back and let the hot water pour onto your forehead while you're combing your wet hair back with your hands to keep it out of your face. You don't want to leave this warm shelter, because once you pull the divider wall aside and let the cold bathroom air in, your body will shiver from the cold and your skin will be covered in goose bumps in a matter of seconds.
So you just stay there—to hell with the hot water bill—and draw idle shapes with your finger in amongst the water rivulets on the steamy plastic surface. Your mind begins to wander and you imagine a place where everything will be better, safer and just a bit more perfect than your real life. Which can't be hard, because your life has hit rock bottom a long time ago. You close your eyes and there she is: beautiful, sweet, enticing Jane.
You are sitting on her bed, staring at her standing opposite you, clad only in a red satin and lace slip and matching bra. You don't know where to look first and you feel like every pore of your skin is on fire. She smiles at you disarmingly and it's all you can do to stand up and cup her soft but firm breasts with your hands, slowly edging them towards her back where you find the little metal hooks of the bra and unfasten them.
As the bra hangs loosely around her shoulders by its lacey straps, she envelops your torso with her arms and pulls your much too average, low-key t-shirt out of your jeans and over your head, throwing it carelessly a few feet away as if it's an annoying prop she needs to get rid of.
Somehow, in the shower, without noticing, your hand has moved to that off-limits area that you have cursed so often recently, that you wish wasn't ruling your mind the way it sometimes does. Your fingers are toying with the dark pubic hair and ever so slowly your right hand starts rubbing what Grace so casually referred to as the "little friend in your pants".
You run your fingertips slowly, sensually over her skin until they reach the bra straps on her shoulders. You carefully pull them down her arms, your fingers never leaving her skin. She cups your face with her hands after you have let the bra fall to the floor in the space ever closing between you. Her hands draw your face nearer to hers and your lips meet as if it's the most natural thing in the world, like the perfect fit of two elements belonging with each other.
While her tongue is performing spirals inside your mouth, her hands move down your back and slide inside the waistband of your boxer shorts, lingering there for a moment. Her lips unlock from yours and she moves them along the side of your neck to your ribcage and down while your hands mimic the motion on her body, floating down the soft skin of her waist.
She giggles involuntarily through her kisses because you have just reached that spot where she is slightly ticklish. You smile because she is smiling, because you simply can't help it. She kneels down in front of you and unfastens the button and zipper of your jeans. A slight tug at your boxers lets both fall to the floor as she stands up, her lips seeking yours out again. Your hands grip her hip more firmly as you step out of your pants and backwards, so that both of you gently fall onto the bed behind you.
A few more fluid motions and you already feel the skin beneath your fingers hardening, a feeling of pleasure rising in you. Whatever they taught you in sex-ed, this feels too good to be something society frowns upon.
Your tongues now mingling in perfect unison, you can't stop your hands from moving over her body with the perfectly round shapes that you don't have to look at to see them, know them. Your one hand reaches her thigh and rubs gently on the inside of it and you feel her stiffening ever so slightly. You hesitate, but you hear her murmur, "Adam, don't stop," so your hand moves closer to the space between her legs that you have never touched before but fantasized about way too often.
Her lips never leaving yours, she removes her slip with a few not too graceful movements—but you don't care about aesthetics in this moment because her physical beauty is enough to leave you breathless. The music of Celtic harps is lilting in the background, and you wonder where it came from because you hadn't noticed it before. Their melancholic sound makes your chest fill with something heavy, but there's also a strange energizing, bouncing quality to it that eggs you on, encourages you.
Your bodies come together and your hand moves closer, ever closer to that spot until you can feel the slightly more bristly hair around her vagina that she has trimmed but not completely shaved off. Your other arm is slung around her back and you draw her nearer, your lips seeking out the groove between her jaw bone and her neck where you can feel her heartbeat pulsing excitedly.
As if your bodies have never been apart, they fit together perfectly. Blood rushes to your head and through the swooshing sensation in your ears you hear her moan with pleasure. Your penis becomes rigid as it touches her warm thigh and you carefully edge forward to wait for her reaction, afraid to be too demanding, too pushy.
She rewards you with complete and utter willingness as she inches closer to you, opening her thighs to let you in, let you discover her from a side you have never seen, never felt. This is uncharted territory for you as much as for her.
You can feel the tension building in your body, the pleasurable tingle ever expanding, filling you with a somehow undeserving joy and carefreeness. Your hand stops moving and you simply let the climax erupt with a gasp of breath.
Uncharted territory? No, wait, you have done this before. Your eyes jerk open as you feel a lump growing in your throat, choking you. In front of you, it's not Jane's face you see, it's Bonnie's—her saucer eyes, her pouty lips, her slightly stringy hair, the two of you lying on the old, squeaky bed in her apartment.
With a suddenness that surprises you, all feeling of pleasure and arousal is gone. You hardly notice the liquid of your ejaculation mingling with the water from the shower as you stare at the bottom of the bathtub you're standing in.
Bonnie—You remember having shared your mutual bodily needs, and it had felt good. It had satisfied you. It had served its purpose. But it hadn't been that mind-boggling, amazingly special, body-tingling first time that you had dreamed about—and you still hate yourself for throwing that away so carelessly. You have long since stopped asking why you chose Bonnie over Jane, why you couldn't bear to wait until Jane was ready, when you knew sex with anyone other than Jane could never live up to expectations.
Suddenly disgusted, you somehow feel dirty, tainted. You take the shower head and wash your genitals, as if it could wash the stain off you that drove Jane away and plunged your life into the abyss. Once accomplished (the washing your body part, not the removing the stain part), you turn off the tap, pull away the plastic wall and grab the towel that already feels damp from the water vapor that has filled the bathroom air, clouding every even surface like mirrors and windows.
You wrap yourself in the towel and dry yourself before you climb from the bathtub on wet feet. Cold penetrates from the tiled floor to the soles of your bare feet and they quickly seek out the bathroom mat placed in front of the sink. Your left hand wipes at the steamy mirror as you towel off your hair with the other one. In the diagonal space you cleared from the steam, your face looks blurry and contorted, surreal. Misshapen.
That is how you feel inside: misshapen. Why is it that you can't weed out these imperfections in you, that you can't be strong enough to overcome them? And if you can't even gain pleasure from the simple, natural act of masturbation, does that mean that you're so far gone that you cannot be recovered?
There is no such place you can go anymore that is better, safer and more perfect than your life, because you know your guilt and shame and anger will always catch up with you when you try to reach it.
But deep, deep down inside, there is that tiny flicker of hope, that one spark hidden somewhere in the dark, waiting to be ignited. It's not quite bright enough to see, but you have not given up hope that the day will come when the flame will start burning. You hold on to that hope because it's what keeps you going.
And whenever you see her, Jane, you can feel it smoldering ever so slightly, even if she does ignore you and give you the cold shoulder. She will be your savior, even if she doesn't know it yet. She will simply be... Jane—and that's all you need to keep you from drowning completely.