Gabrielle's shower (Patreon)

The hot water falls over me, and my body responds before my mind catches up. Steam blurs everything, turning the world soft and distant, and for a moment I exist only here — skin, heat, breath. I close my eyes and let my head tilt back, offering my neck to the spray.

My hands move almost on their own. Slow. Familiar. They trace the shape I know so well — the weight of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the fullness of my hips. Water follows my touch, slick and warm, and the sensation settles deep under my skin.

I know this body. I know how it reacts. And still, I imagine these hands aren’t mine.

In my thoughts, they belong to someone else. Someone close enough that the small space of the shower would barely contain us. I picture their hands where mine are now — confident, deliberate — learning me by touch. Wet shoulders brushing against mine, breath warm against my ear, presence felt more than seen.

I don’t mind being watched. It excites me, this idea of someone seeing me like this, of knowing my every move, even before I make it. The thought of eyes on me, not demanding, just observing, is enough to make my breath catch in my throat.

The idea makes my fingers linger. What starts as habit turns into intention. I let myself pretend, just for a moment, that I’m being touched rather than touching, desired rather than alone. A slow shiver runs through me, settling low and steady, sweet and heavy.

I brace one hand against the cold tile, feeling the contrast — cool wall, hot skin, insistent water — while the other continues its path. My breathing changes, deeper now, quieter. There’s no rush in the fantasy. Only closeness. Only warmth.

When I finally open my eyes, the mirror is still fogged, the water still falling. It’s just a shower. I know that.

But my body remembers the thought — and the way my hands felt when I let them become someone else’s.