They Need a Shower

Max swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets sliding off his hips as he stood. His cock—still half-hard, still glistening faintly from the earlier mess—bobbed upright with every step, the soft foreskin-mouth angled toward his face like she was watching him with lazy affection. The tip of her tongue flicked out once, tasting the air, before she settled into a content little smile that made the whole shaft tilt upward, proud and clingy.

“You’re pointing at me,” Max muttered, padding barefoot across the cool hardwood toward the bathroom. “You’re literally aiming yourself at my face.”

“Obviously,” she purred, the lip-like foreskin curling. “Where else am I supposed to look? You’re the only interesting thing in this apartment.” A soft, wet kiss pressed against the air as she bobbed once, affectionate and shameless. “Besides… I like watching you walk. Ass looks good. Shoulders look good. Everything looks good when you’re carrying me around like this.”

He snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The bathroom was all marble and glass, the kind of expensive wet-room that still felt a little ridiculous for a twenty-year-old, even a successful one. Max twisted the oversized chrome handles until hot water thundered down from the rainfall showerhead, steam already curling toward the ceiling. He stepped under the spray first, letting it soak his short dark hair and roll down the planes of his chest and stomach. His cock swayed with the movement, the water beading on her soft outer skin and sliding into the folds of her mouth.

“Temperature good?” he asked, reaching for the body wash.

“Mmm. Warm. Not scalding. You’re learning.” She sounded almost proud. “Last time you nearly cooked me.”

“That was one time.”

“One traumatic time.”

Max laughed under his breath and started soaping his arms, shoulders, the hard lines of his chest. The citrus-and-sandalwood scent filled the steamy air. He worked the lather down his abs, then lower, careful, almost ritualistic. His dick watched the whole process with open interest, the pink tongue occasionally peeking out to catch a stray droplet.

“So,” Max said, voice casual over the rush of water, “I was thinking after this we head out. Favorite café. The one on the corner with the big windows. I want my usual mocha—extra shot, oat milk, that little swirl of caramel they do if you smile at them long enough.”

His cock went very still for half a second.
Then she recovered, voice light and breezy. “Ooh, the café. Fancy. You just want the caffeine, or are you hoping a certain someone is working the counter again?”

Max’s hands slowed on his stomach. He didn’t look down, but he felt the subtle way her shaft tightened against his thigh. “The barista? Maybe. She’s cute. Friendly. Makes the drinks right.”

“Uh-huh.” The foreskin-mouth smiled, but it was a little too sharp at the edges. “The one with the messy bun and the little nose ring and the way she leans over the espresso machine like she’s putting on a show. Yeah. I remember. You’ve mentioned her. A lot.”

There was the tiniest pause—just long enough for the jealousy to sit in the air like steam—before she barrelled past it with practiced nonchalance.

“Not that I’m worried,” she continued, voice smooth as silk. “I know your type, Maxie. You like the real thing. A big, flirty, talking dick that’s all yours and waiting for you in your pants every single day. Someone who knows exactly how you like to be touched, who can make you weak in the knees with one little moan, who doesn’t need a tip jar to give you attention.” She flexed upward, the soft mouth brushing the underside of his stomach in a deliberate, possessive nuzzle. “She’s just the girl who pours the coffee. I’m the one who gets to feel it when the caffeine hits and you get that little extra twitch. Priority status, baby.”

Max’s lips curved. He didn’t call her out on the deflection. Instead he reached for the body wash again, squeezing a generous amount into his palm. “You’re right. You’re impossible to replace.”

“Damn right I am.”

He soaped his legs, his hips, the V-lines that led downward, deliberately leaving her for last. He knew the routine. She always got the full treatment—slow, thorough, almost worshipful—and she loved every second of the build-up. When his soapy hands finally closed around her, she let out a long, luxurious moan that vibrated straight up his spine.

“Fuuuuck… yes. Right there. Don’t rush it.”
Max worked the lather from base to tip in long, firm strokes, thumbs circling the sensitive underside, fingers sliding under the plush foreskin to clean every fold. The soap foamed white against her flushed skin. She shuddered, tongue flicking out to taste the bubbles.

“Gonna rinse the taste out,” she announced suddenly, voice muffled as she opened wide. Water and soap flooded into her little mouth. She gargled theatrically—loud, exaggerated glug-glug-glug sounds that made Max’s stomach tighten with laughter and something warmer. Foam spilled over her lower lip. She swished, then spat a stream of bubbles against his thigh, only to take another mouthful and do it again.

“Bleh—god, that’s awful.” She coughed, sputtered, the sound wet and undignified. “Why does soap taste like betrayal? Ugh. But better than smelling like last night’s load all day, right? Gotta keep the queen fresh.” Another dramatic gargle, another sputtering cough that sent more foam cascading down her shaft. “There. Minty… well, citrusy… well, at least not cummy.”

Max watched the whole performance with soft eyes, one hand braced against the tiled wall because the vibrations of her gagging and moaning around the soap were doing dangerous things to his knees. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, voice fond. “Putting on a whole show just to rinse your mouth.”

“I have standards,” she sniffed, then ruined the dignity by coughing one last time and sticking her tongue out to let the water rinse it clean. “And you love it. Don’t pretend your knees aren’t shaking.”

They weren’t. Not completely. But they were close.

He finished rinsing her carefully, letting the warm water cascade over every inch until the last of the suds disappeared. For a moment he thought they were done—clean, relaxed, ready to towel off and face the day. He even reached for the shower handle.

That was when she moved.

The soft mouth closed gently but firmly around nothing, and the entire shaft flexed with surprising strength. She tugged—hard—pulling his hips backward until his ass and shoulders hit the cool marble wall with a wet slap. Water continued to pour over both of them, streaming down his chest and over the curve of her. She held him there, pinned, the tip of her tongue flicking against his stomach in a slow, deliberate lap.

“Not so fast, Maxie,” she murmured, voice low and syrupy now, the earlier playfulness edged with something hungrier. “We’ve got the whole shower to ourselves. Hot water. Slippery skin. And it’s been forever since we actually fucked around in here properly. Not just a quick stroke. Real fun.” The foreskin-mouth curved into a wicked little smile against his skin. “What do you say? Stay a little longer and play with your queen?”

The water kept falling. Max’s breath had gone shallow. And his dick—bratty, affectionate, jealous, and completely his—waited for the answer with the tip of her tongue still tracing lazy circles against his stomach.