I need a shower

I didn’t even make it to the sink.

The second Veronica disappeared down the hallway, hoodie swaying over those thick thighs, I turned and walked straight to the bathroom like a man possessed. My cock was already half-hard again from the kitchen—her hand on my chest, the casual way she’d said she was covering my rent, the low “mostly kidding” about shower company. The relief and the lust were tangled so tight I couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

The bathroom was exactly what you’d expect from a hundred-year-old Marrickville terrace: tiny, tiled in that ugly peach colour from the nineties, one frosted-glass shower cubicle jammed right next to the toilet. No lock on the door that actually worked. Thin walls. Zero privacy. I’d known that the first week when I heard her laughing at some horny chatter through the door while I tried to sleep.

I stripped, left my track pants and t-shirt in a heap on the floor, and stepped under the spray before the water even had time to heat properly. Hot needles hit my shoulders. I braced both hands on the tiles, dropped my head, and wrapped my fist around my cock.

No preamble. No pretending I was just washing.

I stroked hard from the first pull—long, tight drags, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every upstroke. Water ran down my back, over my ass, dripping off my balls as I fucked my own hand and let the morning replay behind my eyelids.

Veronica in that oversized hoodie. The black lace strap slipping. The way the fabric stretched across the full, heavy weight of her tits when she reached for something. Those soft, pale thighs swinging from the counter. The flash of black boyshorts when she hopped down. Her small hand flat on my chest, nails dragging just enough to make me wonder what they’d feel like lower. The rent. Fuck, the rent. She was paying so I didn’t have to kill myself at the warehouse. Taking care of me. And all I could think about was dropping to my knees, pushing that hoodie up to her waist, and eating her until she couldn’t stream a single coherent word.

“Veronica—” I groaned her name low, rough, the sound bouncing off the tiles. My fist moved faster. I pictured her walking in right now, glasses fogging, hoodie still on, watching me come apart over her. Maybe she’d lift it. Maybe she’d turn around and bend over the sink and let me—

My balls drew up tight. Pleasure slammed through me so hard my knees buckled. I came with a bitten-off curse, thick ropes of cum splattering the shower wall, pulse after pulse while I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop. My forehead pressed to the cool tile. Water washed the evidence away in seconds, but the aftershocks kept rolling through my thighs.

Post-nut clarity hit like a truck.

I’d just jerked off thinking about my housemate—the one who was now financially supporting me—while she was probably already in her room setting up her stream. This was going to get so fucking complicated.

I reached for the body wash, started actually cleaning the warehouse grime off my skin, when the bathroom door exploded open.

“Tom—oh my god, I’m so sorry—” Veronica’s voice was high, frantic, ****. The door slammed shut behind her. I heard the frantic rustle of fabric, the toilet lid clattering up, and then the unmistakable sound of her yanking the hoodie up and sitting down hard.

“I knocked twice but the water was on and I had three coffees during that raid and I’m dying—this house is the actual worst, one toilet, no privacy, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Through the frosted glass I could see her blurry silhouette: small, curvy, the oversized hoodie bunched up around her waist, those thick thighs spread on the seat. The sound of her peeing filled the tiny room—urgent, loud, intimate in a way that made my freshly spent cock give a lazy twitch against my thigh.

I stood there naked, water streaming down my body, one hand still braced on the tile, cum residue still faintly visible on the wall before the spray took it. She was two feet away. Peeling. And she wasn’t running.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she called out over the sound, voice strained but trying for light. “But also… kind of relieved? God, that coffee hit like a truck. You okay in there? Did you at least get to finish your shower before I ruined it?”

The water kept pounding. Steam curled around me. My silhouette was just as visible to her as hers was to me—broad shoulders, hand near my cock, the evidence of what I’d been doing washing down the drain in real time.

“Yeah,” I managed, voice hoarse from the orgasm and the shock. “I’m… good. Just rinsing off.”

She laughed, a little breathless, the sound warm even through the glass. “At least one of us got some relief this morning.” A beat. “The hot water help with the warehouse stress? Or were you thinking about something else?”

There was a teasing lilt in her voice now that the immediate desperation had passed. She finished, wiped, flushed. The sound of her standing. The hoodie dropping back down over her hips. She didn’t leave.

Instead she stepped closer to the shower. Through the frosted glass her shape was clearer—standing right there, arms crossed under her chest so the fabric stretched tight across the heavy swell of her tits, head tilted like she was studying my silhouette.

“You know,” she said, voice lower now, almost conversational but with that same warm curiosity from the kitchen, “the offer still stands. If you ever want actual company in there. Rent’s covered either way. No pressure.” She pushed her glasses up with one finger. “But I should probably let you finish rinsing before I make this any weirder. Unless you want me to stay.”

She didn’t move.

The steam between us felt thicker than the glass. My cock was already stirring again, heavy and interested, water running down the length of it. She could probably see the movement. She didn’t look away.

The high point hung there—her silhouette inches from the door, hoodie still on, the intimacy of what had just happened settling over both of us like the steam. The rent. The accidental exposure. The way she hadn’t fled. The open door she’d just left cracked between us.