Marie Takes A Shower

Marie closed the bathroom door behind her. Steve hadn't said anything and had barely looked up when she walked past him. In a way, she regretted it and felt invisible. Was she so unattractive and less desirable than the American women Steve had unlimited access to? Her pride was hurt just a little.

She slowly undressed. Every movement suddenly seemed to be significant. Every item of clothing she took off was a message. The frosted glass separated her from Steve, but it didn't shut him out. On the contrary, it made his presence more palpable. She didn't have to look to know he was there. Sitting, waiting, alert.

She avoided looking in the mirror because she was afraid of seeing something in her eyes that she didn't want to admit.

When she stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water, it was a relief at first. The splashing filled the room and blocked out all other sounds around her. The warmth pelted her neck, ran down her shoulders and back. She closed her eyes, sighed with relief, and enjoyed the feeling of safety.

But she couldn't shake the awareness that Steve was there.

He had to be able to see her outline, follow her movements. Not clear, but clear enough. What was he thinking? What would he do?

The idea made her uneasy. Her breathing became shallower, her movements more deliberate. She imagined how she might look to him: no face, just a silhouette. A body. Any woman. Near, ****, available.

She wondered if he was watching or deliberately looking away. Both thoughts were unsettling in their own way.

Her memory drifted back to the hour before the conference in the side room. He had called one of the women in. The matter-of-factness with which everything that followed had happened still unsettled her. The roles had been predetermined and assumed without hesitation. No questions, no doubts, no reservations.

What, she wondered, would have happened if he had asked her to step into the area?

The idea of what might have happened there overwhelmed her and she couldn't shake it off. She pictured it. Involuntarily, but vividly.

She felt her body react to this image without being able to prevent it. A tingling sensation in her stomach was ambiguous but telltale. Her legs trembled slightly. A pulling in her chest signaled that her nipples were becoming firmer.

Marie leaned her hands against the tiled wall and lowered her head under the stream of water, as if it could wash away unwanted thoughts.

Part of her was horrified at herself and at this fantasy. Was the desire behind it really genuine? Did she want to be chosen and guided by him? Would she give up her own decisions and prefer to be controlled by him?

Would she say no?

Her self-image frayed and mingled with a desire she couldn't quite place. The water ran down her face and over her stomach. As if of its own accord, her hand followed the stream and found the spot where heat and wetness met. Caught between revulsion and longing, she began to caress herself.

The more she touched herself, the stronger the desire became. The images in her mind's eye blurred and overlapped. Steve, the redhead, the cross, the restraints—Marie.

Her fingers knew what she needed without her having to think about it. She surrendered to her instincts. Panting. Trembling. Consuming herself.

The climax overwhelmed her. Her legs gave way. She sank down along the wall and remained sitting in the streaming water.

When she finally turned the water off and dried herself, nothing had been resolved. Neither her tension nor the question of what she and Steve would do in the room tonight.