Her body shuddered. The relentless weight of the shower spray. The boiling heat radiating off his skin. The deep, full ache in her core. It was all too much to bear standing up.
Wet pink hair plastered itself across her damp cheekbones. Her eyes fluttered open halfway, glassy and completely unfocused in the steam. Her lips were noticeably puffy from the kiss, glistening under the bathroom lights.
He pulled away slightly—just a fraction—letting the hot water run straight between their mouths, washing away the sticky trail of spit and shared breath.
She looked up at him.
Barely.
Eyes heavy with haze.
Lashes clumping wetly together.
Her delicate face flushed a deep, feverish red.
And he smirked.
Smug.
Utterly in control.
His hand dragged up her slick stomach again. Slow and deliberate. His knuckles grazed her wet skin, pushing the sodden, clinging top of her dress higher and higher—until his broad palm caught her breast fully. His thumb flicked right over the dark, soaked, and fiercely throbbing peak.
She gasped sharply.
"Haahhh—haaah..."
Then ca his voice.
Low.
Dark.
Felt more than heard, vibrating right against her ear shell.
"You’re not moaning now," he murmured, the rumble curling with thick pride.
She shivered violently against him.
Her weak knees almost buckled again.
"Haaah... haah... mmhh..."
Her lips parted. Her pink tongue barely moved—but no actual words ford.
Only heat.
Only jagged breath.
Only his unyielding cock—still pulsing deep inside her leaking, pliant hole.
"I hate you," she whispered—barely louder than the hiss of the shower head. Her voice cracked, raw and pathetic. Her breath shuddered with the lie, her pale chest heaving against the steam-thick air, but her delicate fingers still curled helplessly against his thick wrist.
Her body instinctively leaned back into his hard chest, betraying the very words trying to push him away.
He let out a dark, throaty chuckle right beside her ear, his lips brushing the wet curve of the shell.
"Hate for loving you like this?" His voice was a harsh rasp—velvet wrapped around cold iron—smug, slow, and wonderfully rciless.
His hand at her chest squeezed the soft mound of her breast again. His calloused thumb dragged a tight, agonizing circle around the stiff, begging nipple. She gasped hard through clenched teeth, her spine arching slightly to push more of herself into his palm.
She reached back, weak fingers wrapping around his thick wrist, making a token effort to push his hand away—but her grip slipped. Coated in shower water, sweat, and sheer arousal, her hand slid right off his skin like she had no strength left at all. And in that bare mont of failure, he took advantage.
His hand dropped downward. Fluid and practiced. His long fingers traced her soaked, trembling stomach, gliding right over the heavy cling of her bunched-up skirt... until he found the jagged, wet tear in her thigh-high stockings.
She tensed up instantly.
He didn’t pause.
His fingertips slid right between the shredded, nylon gaps—pressing directly over the swollen, glistening heat hidden between her thighs.
Her wet pussy peeked through the torn fabric, framing her like sothing forbidden finally laid bare. Dripping. Shining with her own slickness under the water. Still aching for attention.
"N-no..." she whispered, the plea barely a breath. "Don’t..." But the word rang entirely hollow.
Her soft thighs stayed willingly parted. Her hips didn’t dare move away from his touch. Her words just hung in the steamy air, unanswered, while her body actively betrayed her—open, trembling violently, and already flooding wet all over again.
He pressed deeper.
Two thick fingers slowly slid right along her swollen clit. The ruined edge of her wet stockings scraped lightly against her most sensitive flesh, a rough friction that made her jolt.
"Hhh—!"
He grinned darkly against her damp cheek. "Still pretending," he murmured, the smug words sinking into her skin like pure heat. "Even now, when you’re soaking wet for ."
Her heavy head lolled back against his strong shoulder, lips parted in a wide, soundless gasp. His fingers began to move. Lazy, horribly precise circles around her swollen little nub, pushing down with just enough pressure to make her hips twitch upward and her knees buckle beneath her.
At the sa ti, his cock twitched inside her ass, still buried thick and heavy, maintaining his claim on her from behind.
And now his wicked hand claid the front, too.
"Haah... haaah..."
Her moans were breathy at first—soft, shallow gasps caught between clenched teeth—but as his fingers sped up, rubbing faster and firr, she couldn’t trap the sounds anymore. She broke into a high, needy whimper.
She shook. Her pale thighs trembled violently as thick, slick heat gathered between her swollen folds. More and more of her natural juices spilled out, drenching his invading fingers right through the torn nylon.
Her hips began to unconsciously grind back against his hand. Just a little at first. Reflex. Base instinct. Complete betrayal of her own words.
He kissed her again to shut her up.
Hot.
Hard.
His tongue invading her mouth, licking up her very breath like he owned it. His teeth grazed her puffy lower lip as he selfishly swallowed down every broken sound she made.
Her hands, abandoning any pretense of pushing him away, clung desperately to his thick forearm instead. Her manicured nails dug right into his wet skin, just trying to stay upright as he overwheld her.
And then—his other hand finally moved from her waist.
Slow.
Maddeningly certain.
It slid around to the soaked, knotted laces of her ruined maid dress, tugging at the strings. Loosening the tight bind. Undoing her final layer, inch by agonizing inch.
The restrictive fabric fell apart. Wet, heavy, and clinging stubbornly to her skin, it peeled down her slender arms, her shivering shoulders, peeling away from her chest. Her pale breasts finally spilled free, flushed hot pink and bouncing heavily with every involuntary twitch of her grinding hips.
The hot shower water ran in rivulets down their soft curves, pooling right over her stiff nipples, which were already chafed red and aching for his mouth.
He groaned low and thick right into her ear.
"Look at you... your tiny hole is your weakness even now... my little cotton candy."
His hand strayed from her clit—just for a fleeting second—and dipped lower between her flushed folds. Rough fingertips brushed the boiling slickness there, lazily teasing her untouched, soaked entrance.
She gasped sharply into his mouth.
Her bare legs trembled as it hit her: he knew the hidden maps of her body better than she did.
"Crux...ius...!"
His na spilled past her swollen lips mid-kiss—not scread, not spoken. Just surrendered.
And still, he didn’t pause.
His digits dragged back up, tracing the slick path from her dripping entrance to her sensitive bud, circling with a firr pressure now. Tighter. Faster. Every deliberate stroke sent pure voltage shooting up her spine. Her quivering thighs clenched together. Her breath hitched, her spine arching as she chased the friction.
She was teetering on the edge.
They both felt it.
But he refused to rush the climax.
He let her moan, let her grind her hips backward. He let her buck and instinctively clench her bruised ass around his embedded shaft, reading every involuntary twitch as a signal for how deep he needed to drive.
The shower head hissed like a cornered serpent above them. Thick, white steam swallowed the bathroom beyond the glass door. The ambient heat coiled around their tangled forms, slick skin sliding against soaked skin, their ragged breaths muffled by the drumming water and dense humidity.
Damp strands of pink hair plastered themselves to her cheeks, the skin flushed a feverish red under the veil of rising mist. Her lips—puffy, parted, and thoroughly kissed—trembled as she fought for oxygen.
Her uniform was nothing but ruins now.
The corset hung loose and unlaced, drenched fabric bunching stubbornly at her hips. Her pale breasts were fully exposed, glistening beautifully beneath the relentless fall of the shower. The dark areolas pebbled, nipples thrusting forward, aching from the scalding water and his prior, bruising grip.
Her calves shook. The ruined nylon stockings tore further down her thighs, framing the raw, swollen pink flesh weeping between her legs.
And yet—
His manhood remained sheathed inside her backdoor.
Thick. Unyielding. Throbbing.
Each throb echoed through her sensitive core like a silent command. Her overused rim clenched weakly around his base, offering no resistance—only a greedy, molded hold. Her inner thighs spasd at the deep stretching sensation, pale toes curling against the slippery tile floor as the sheer weight of him settled deep in her belly.
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