Install the Showerhead

Trey managed to completely soak himself almost right away. “From my perspective your flow works pretty well,” he reported, dripping all over the floor. He collected himself. “But… there’s… always room for better. I think. Yes.”

Meghan tried to get back to work. Freelance editing had felt like a sexy, cool job for a modern young woman. Steadily shaping the works of the next Plath, the next Woolf. Perhaps that was true pre-internet, when text was rare, every printed example of inherent value from the use of ink. Now it was her job to marginally improve the endless flow from the spigot. The works were a dispiriting sameness of girls monetizing personal traumas.

Suddenly she found herself back in the kitchen. The TV was on, in the other room, and from the sounds of it, was quite possibly on channel three thousand fifty-six. The moans sounded elderly. She was hungry again. That was out of character. Meghan had long ago decided that food was essentially an enemy. Her stomach rumbled.

“Miss?” Trey again. He stuck his head out from the bathroom. Behind him was the noise of a roaring and unconstrained deluge. “Can I bother you for a screwdriver? And a towel?”

“Everything okay in there?” Meghan said, angling her head to check.

“Oh! Going very well. You can probably hear the, ah, advanced flow,” Trey said. He bobbed his head up and down. Water cascaded to the floor. “Just could use a screwdriver if it’s alright. And that towel. It’s for holding the screwdriver.”

Meghan rummaged through the junk drawer. In her head she thought: well, it was pretty clear the day was a total loss with respect to work. The world would be understanding if she, instead, made a perfect stack of pancakes. “Phillips or flathead?”

Trey glanced backwards. “I think the most important thing right now is speed,” he reported.

She passed him the tool, and one of Austin’s beach towels. Steam leaked through the top of the doorframe.

Back to pancakes.

Meghan was suddenly very conscious that she had little culinary talent. While it was possible to follow a recipe she had no idea where, for example, she had a teaspoon. Or a tablespoon either. The recipe called for buttermilk which seemed laughable. Meghan wildly overcompensated with extra butter, dipping into the aging and rarely-used tub. She caught herself absently tying the bow of a ribbon behind her, securing a nonexistent apron.

She preheated the oven, just in case.

But when they were done they were golden-brown and she was ravenous. Meghan took a towering plate very quickly to the living room – watching TV just made sense, didn’t it? The entire assembly of heavy pastries got drenched in more butter and maple syrup, and she was just about to stick a fork in when Trey called out.

“Miss? Scissors?”

“Scissors,” Meghan rushed through this request. “Of course, scissors.” Running with them. Trey’s grateful look was reward enough – who was she to begrudge the man? There was probably some hair to cut, deep in the pipes.

Back to the pancakes. They were overwhelmingly fatty, rich, and sinful. Meghan ate six or seven. Syrup added a new brown drizzle pattern to her blouse. A red and white striped shirt that was mostly linen, and now heavily sugared. She chased it with a glass of milk, and then another.

It took Meghan awhile, buried up to her nose in griddle cakes, to recognize that she was watching one of the porno stations. Not old people fucking. A schoolgirl theme, with girls in black thigh-highs carefully putting one heel in front of the other. No expense was spared on lace and silk. The teacher was perhaps one year older than her students, and liked to bend over during math class. The camera made sure to lovingly detail her ass cheeks.

“Nice butt,” Meghan mumbled, cheeks full to bursting. She felt – good. Playing hooky from work, full of starch and sugar, and a nice strong man performing manual labor in her bathroom. She felt embarrassed by her earlier surge of annoyance. So what if Trey needed a screwdriver or scissors or—

“Miss?”

“What is it, Trey?” It escaped as an almost anxious, eager-to-please spray. “You need something?”

“Can I pee in your bathroom? The other one? I’ll pee really quickly, I promise.”

“Of course!” Meghan said, waving a fork-filled hand. Belatedly she realized: she hadn’t cleaned up the master bedroom at all. In fact her hump pillow was still there, guiltily mish-mashed on the bedsheets. And her underpants. The soggy ones. Her current ones were feeling a little damp too.

She tried to stand up and couldn’t quite manage. Meghan was suddenly unsure about how many pancakes she’d gone through. Probably one stack, right? But then where had all the powdered sugar come from? She was quite sure that the first batch had no powdered sugar, and now it was everywhere, a localized snowstorm.

On screen the teacher and student body president were on either side of the football captain’s dick, licking away. At least, Meghan assumed he was a football player. With arms like that and a cock that big he had to be a local sports legend.

Meghan managed to put the plate aside. She swiveled her head downwards. She was a complete mess, starting with her stance. Legs wide, stomach wide. Trickling a river of sugars down towards the floor. It was too difficult to stand, for whatever reason. Easier instead to watch porn. In a shocking reverse of fortune, the teacher was getting vigorously spanked by the students in her class. Meghan’s pussy gave a little jolt with each smack. They were doing it ****-On-The-Orient-Express style, with each classmate getting a whack.

“Okay, I think we’ve— uhhh. Unh.”

That was how Trey found her: legs akimbo, a little leaky, dusted with sugars and with a glistening ring of syrup around her mouth. Also watching pornography in the middle of the day.

Meghan would’ve been fine with a small blast of embarrassment, but the scope of it surprised her. Wave after wave of it, centering around her slobbery. She was the supposed mistress of Austin’s house. The house should be sparkling clean and warm and inviting. She, herself, should be clean and warm and very inviting. Instead she was a horny fatass on the couch. Even so, it was a struggle to lift herself. Her butt felt full of ballast.

“I’m— you installed the porno!” blaming Trey was even more pathetic, and they both knew it. More crumbs fell to the floor. At least she was upright. “I’m going to clean all that up!” Her cheeks were burning red.

Meghan put her hand on her waist, to hide her popped-open fly. This was so– not her, on many levels. Especially just generally eating. She’d favored a wan, pale look with semi-permanent bags under her eyes. Someone who drank coffee for the calories. Not a house-bound daytime TV hound with substantial curves.

It was all a lot, and Trey did her a favor by giving his full attention to the TV screen, where the teacher was now fully reduced in status. She worked, from the look of things, in a janitorial capacity. She was stationed on her knees in the men’s room.

“That’s the real 4K definition,” he said, with pride. “Do you want to check out the shower now?”

“Uh– sure,” Meghan said, following the man. And why didn’t she have a drink to hand to him? This, at least, was something she already knew how to do. She’d bartended in college. She knew her way around gin, and knew that Trey would love a Tom Collins after a long day getting drenched.

“I had to reroute a lot of your plumbing, and there’s a little bit of water in a lot of your rooms, but it’s done,” Trey said. He seemed very proud of himself. It was an attractive quality in a man. The showerhead now sported a futuristic disc, like a miniaturized spaceship. It blinked with more LEDs then Meghan would’ve thought.

“I’ll let you give it a shot while I clean up,” Trey said, shutting the door behind her.

“Wait—” he intended for her to take a shower? Get naked? There?

Was he commenting on her look? Shame poured through her, so strongly Meghan had to brace herself against the sink. She was being high-handed, elitist, treating this man like merest labor. Her MFA friends would’ve raised eyebrows and talked shit in separate group chats. That was one half of the shame. The other half was – she was a bad hostess. A woman should be inviting and compliant. Sitting on the couch at all was a transgression. Her options were to stand, waiting, or to kneel, serving.

Kneeling in a pretty dress, heels up behind her. Ass raw from a well-deserved spanking.

It was a lot, and Meghan found herself stripping down, as the only possible option. The mirror was entirely fogged up, and she wiped it down just to glance at herself. It didn’t look like a housewife body. That kind of body was pear-shaped, soft and curved. At home in tights, vainly fighting a growing ass with occasional yoga. She had a grad student’s body, unnourished, boobs wideset on a flat tummy. It was… reassuring? No. That wasn’t it. Meghan put a hand on her own hips. There could be more there, and it wouldn’t be so bad. Sexy. Womanly.

She climbed into the shower.

It was an abrupt waterfall. Meghan didn’t realize her mouth was open, jaw slack, until it filled up with tepid shower water. She swallowed. At least the pancake medley was getting sluiced away. After the initial shock the shower was more than pleasant. It was a steady drumbeat on all parts of her, her tits, her stomach, the glowing and warm part between her legs. The heat bore into her.

“How is it?” Trey had actually poked his head in. There was just a translucent curtain between them. The heat surged, up into her head. There was a man in there. She should– no, she was–

“It’s a lot!” Meghan said. “But good! Thank you!” She had to speak fast, her mouth kept filling up with water.

The showerhead attracted her attention. There were dozens of LEDs on it, not just green but in a number of pretty colors. She focused on it, wondering what the pattern was. There had to be some reason to it – a measure of heat, of flow? But no, the LEDs were changing, all the time, from blue to green to red.

“It detaches!” Trey called out. “The showerhead!”

“The– what?” The warmth was all the way through her, now.

“The one you’ve been staring at for ten minutes,” Trey said. He laughed, relieved. “Give it a try.”

Meghan reached out and pulled at the showerhead. It was detachable, wasn’t it? At her approach the LEDs picked up, eager, a flurry of primary colors playing across her eyes. It was so nice of Trey to take care of their shower. To take care of her. She should take care of him, of all men…

The showerhead broke off in her hand. The LEDs died.

“Oh!” Meghan shook herself, confused. She was – showering. Right. With a strange man, last name unknown, hovering around. The showerhead was dead in her hand, but the water was now a steady stream, a single uninterrupted jet, and it was landing right on her clit.

It felt really good.

Her left hand was already down there, kneading away. Meghan looked at it, confused. She had all five fingers rubbing, the water flowing in and between them. She was halfway to an orgasm already, and it was easier, and made more sense, to just keep going. It would be nice and clean, her mind told her. Shake off all that porno and shame and everything in one nice cum. Who knows what would wash away down the pipes. The orgasm hit her, and she dropped the showerhead. It floated in the tub. A moment later she joined it, on her knees, breathing hard.

“Everything okay?” Trey said, from the outside. Come in, she wanted to say. Look at how clean she was. Not a trace of sugar or syrup. Nice wet boobs.

“I broke the showerhead!” Meghan said, when she could catch her breath. She turned the water off, with a very shaky hand. “I’m so very sorry!”