Her towel is white, and less fluffy than softly worn after many years of use. Patting herself down first, she rolls less into the caress of the material, and more the harsh rub. The towel acts as a corrosive: the dirt was washed off with the water, and now clean, she feels like she is shedding old skin.
This is the driest she expects to be all night. Her skin will be like paper, blank, ready to be written on.
She begins with her face and head. Ears first, for the water so often stays in them after a shower. Her hair she’ll attend to later. She rubs her cheeks until she can feel them burn. She loops the towel behind her neck, sawing it back and forth like a rope. After this, her shoulders and chest are scraped down. Only at her breasts is she cautious, carefully brushing over her nipples. But her arms, fingers, back, her stomach, her thighs, knees, calves, feet, are all treated the same, rough way, until she feels the blood beneath her skin, burning and blossoming red.
Between her legs, she is once more gentle, patting her labia with the towel. When she is done, her body feels anew, and her cunt lips are soft, pliable, ready for sweet torments. She has to hold a breath to stop projecting into the evening, for anticipation always leads to disappointment.
She plugs in the hair drier, and with a brush, blows it soft and hard until her curls and waves are straight and fall less like a vine and more as silk curtain. She runs her fingers through it, holding the ends up out from her head to see them in the mirror.
Yes, this is good.
Her body is reawakened, brand new. Ready.
Next: 3. Dress
Image found on flickr, by desiitally, used under the Creative Commons License.