A Night in a Year: 1. Shower

A new project for 2013! A Night in a Year: An Erotic Adventure in Cambridge. Thus far, I have seven parts written, and a plan – this is far better going than I have done in the past, so by this time next week the posts for January should be written too.

Blurb: A woman prepares for a night out in Cambridge, with one thing on her mind. When she hits the centre of town, and enters a newly established bar, her eye sets upon an intriguing gentleman in a sharp suit and long, elegant fingers. However, before the night is out, she will have many more encounters than she could ever have expected.

It should go without saying that these posts will not be safe for work – though the images will remain clean, the text will get absolutely filthy. 😉

Without further ado, here is Part 1. Shower.

The debris of the day sloughs off her, courses over her eye sockets. The white shower curtain wavers in front of her. She gasps, forcing herself to stay under the burst of cold water, trembling until it warms up. Then she shakes her head under the stream. The water traces her scalp. Her lips part against the veil of it.

This is the start of the ritual. The preparation for the state she’s about to enter. Cleansing, wiping away mundanity before she steps into the night world waiting outside. The water reawakens her senses, dulled from her desk job and the glow of a computer screen. The only piece of technology that will come with her tonight is a tiny phone – no easy connection to the internet, just a few numbers if trouble should strike.

Though she is not averse to a little bit of trouble.

She massages the soap from head to toe; scrubs her hair, her ears, the back of her neck, arm pits, sides, crotch. As the soap swirls away, and she wipes herself clean of it, she wonders that her hand, brushing past her breasts and cunt did not cause even a moment of arousal. The intent of the action, she thinks, and experimentally, press a finger to her clit, urging excitement.

The flicker of it is brief, but present.

She smiles – perfect – and drops her hand away. She will not anticipate the pleasures of the night. That will be left for another hand. Or tongue.

When the soap is all gone, and her skin feels like wet silk, she turns off the shower, and rings the water from her hair. As she steps out, and reaches for the towel, she imagines her night ahead.

How much she will drink, and how much she will fuck.

Next: 2. Dry

Image found on flickr, by wnorrix, used under the Creative Commons License.