The news had been warning about the water shortage for weeks—mandatory restrictions, fines for overuse, the whole city on edge. Our old house had a tiny hot water tank anyway, so when Mark—my stepdad—suggested we shower together to save water, it sounded practical at first. "Just to be efficient," he'd said over breakfast, casual as anything. "No big deal."
I was nineteen, home from college for the summer, and the idea made my stomach flip. Mark was in his early forties, fit from his construction job, with broad shoulders and that easy confidence that always made me feel a little off-balance. We'd gotten along fine since he married Mom five years ago, but this? This felt like crossing a line I wasn't sure I wanted to think about.
Still, the guilt of wasting water won out. I told myself it would be quick and awkward, nothing more.
I wore my bikini—the modest black one with full coverage. When I stepped into the steam-filled bathroom, Mark was already under the spray, water sluicing down his back. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled, nothing sleazy, just reassuring. "Thanks for being a good sport, kiddo."
I slipped in behind him, keeping my distance, letting the warm water hit my shoulders. The shower was small; every shift brought us closer. The air smelled like his body wash—clean, woodsy, masculine—and the steam wrapped around us like a blanket.
We took turns under the main stream at first, passing shampoo and soap like it was normal. But then I heard it: the soft, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. I froze. He'd turned slightly away, one hand braced on the tile wall, the other… moving. Slow, deliberate strokes.
My face burned. "Mark… what are you—"
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low and rough. "It's just… been a while. The water, the heat. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You can step out if you want."
I should have. The door was right there. Instead, I stayed, heart racing. "I… I can look away," I offered, voice barely above the water's rush.
He let out a shaky breath that turned into a quiet groan. That sound—it slid down my spine like warm honey, pooling low in my belly. I'd never heard anything so raw, so needy. My thighs pressed together instinctively.
Don't look, I told myself. But I did.
Just a glance at first. Then I couldn't look away. His cock was thick, heavier than I'd imagined, veins standing out along the length as his fist moved up and down. Water beaded and ran over the flushed head with every stroke. It was… beautiful in a way that made my mouth dry and my core ache.
I shifted, and the slick heat between my legs had nothing to do with the shower. My bikini bottoms were soaked through in a completely different way.
He noticed me watching. His hand slowed, but didn't stop. His eyes met mine through the steam—dark, questioning, hungry.
I don't know what possessed me. My fingers went to the tie at my neck, then the one at my back. The wet fabric peeled away, and my breasts spilled free, nipples tight from the cool air and something else entirely. Water streamed over them, tracing paths down my stomach.
His groan deepened.
"We could… help each other," I said, barely recognizing my own voice. "Just this once. To finish faster. Save more water."
He didn't hesitate. "Come here."
I stepped closer until the spray hit us both. His free hand reached for me, tentative at first, cupping one breast, thumb brushing over the peak. The touch shot straight to my clit. I whimpered.
I wrapped my hand around him—couldn't even close my fingers all the way. He was hot, velvet over steel, pulsing in my grip. We moved together slowly: his fingers rolling my nipple, my hand stroking him in time with his earlier rhythm. Water slicked everything, making every glide smooth and perfect.
Then his hand slid lower, over my stomach, slipping under the waistband of my bottoms. When his fingers found my folds, parted them, circled my swollen clit, I gasped against his shoulder. He knew exactly how to touch—gentle pressure, slow circles, dipping just inside before coming back to that aching spot.
"Look at you," he murmured against my temple. "So wet for me."
I stroked him faster, feeling him swell even more. His hips rocked into my hand, breath hitching. My own climax built quickly—embarrassingly quickly—coiling tight until it snapped. I came with a soft cry muffled against his chest, thighs trembling, pussy fluttering around nothing.
He followed seconds later, groaning my name as thick ropes of cum painted my stomach and breasts, instantly washed away by the water but leaving the heat of him behind.
We stood there panting, foreheads touching, water cooling around us.
"That was…" he started.
"Yeah," I whispered.
We finished rinsing in silence, the air between us changed—charged, expectant.
As I wrapped a towel around myself later, I caught his eye in the mirror. He looked like a man who'd tasted something he couldn't forget.
Next time we shower together—and there will be a next time—I won't be wearing anything at all.
And I won't settle for just hands.
I want all of him. I want to feel him lose control completely, want him to mark me in a way the water can't wash away.
Next time, he's going to cover me in his cum… and I'm going to beg for every drop.