She told herself she was washing. The ruined mesh clung to her skin, and she peeled it down in strips, and the cream bra went with it.
The cum on her stomach ran off in thin white threads and went down the drain. That was the washing.
Her hand had stopped doing that and started doing something else.
She leaned her shoulders against the tile. The water ran hot over her breasts and her tender, hard nipples.
She slid two fingers between her legs and found herself swollen and slick and sore in a way that she could still feel him in, and she bit down on the inside of her wrist to keep from making a sound.
You just did that.
Her fingers did not care.
She thought about the weight of him under her palms. About his hand smacking her thigh, twice, and how for a second she had not wanted to move.
About Lia's hands on her chest, and how she had slapped them away, and how some small part of her had not wanted her to stop.
