Wife pretty.
The kind of pretty you take home to meet your parents but not necessarily the kind you brag to your buddies about.
I took off my work blouse, pulling it over my head, and let it fall to the floor. My skin colored bra was a little too big for my breasts, a result of buying what I could afford, not what was perfectly molded to fit my specific shape and size. It wasn’t Victoria’s Secret—GiGi’s Secret actually—a cheap department store knockoff.
I unfastened my bra and pulled the straps down off of my shoulders. I yanked down, letting my heavy breasts fall free of the metal rims beneath cheap fabric.
A quick soothing feeling came over me, like when you’re barefoot on a black tar surface or a hot beach and you run with all your might to reach the shade to be welcomed by such an instant relief that you can almost feel your feet sizzle and an “awww” escapes your lips.
“Aww,” I said just above a whisper.
In the mirror, my breasts hung down a little lower than I wanted them to. They weren’t huge, just more than a handful, but after breastfeeding gravity took over and made them look—I don’t know—used.
I lifted them up with my hands, holding them so they looked firm and fake, like I’d actually afforded the surgery I’d been wanting for so long.
For me, it wasn’t about fake breasts, it was just about looking how I did before I had a child. Healthy and beautiful and firm. I didn’t want bigger boobs, just better boobs.
My areolas were dark and my nipples hard. Stretch marks ran across my stomach, the lower part at least.
Why was I doing this to myself?
A guy was out there, a handsome and rich and friendly guy who wanted me. He actually wanted me. And here I was in the bathroom doubting myself as usual.
Maybe I could get into bed without him really seeing me.
I stepped into the shower and slid the frosty glass door closed. I fiddled with the nozzle until a lukewarm stream finally shot out and then stood beneath the spray, letting it wash my worries away. It heat up quickly. Soon, hot water covered me, hitting my closed eyelids and running down my lips and my chest and between my legs.
I took the bar of soap, ran my hands over it several times to lather up, then used my soapy hands to wash my body. I closed my eyes as I ran my slick hands over my breasts and while slippery, they felt perfect.
I felt good, like a real woman.
I ran my other soapy hand down to my ass and cleaned it good. Then lathered again and cleaned between my legs.
That’s when I heard the click of the bathroom door. I jumped, terror taking over me. I was completely naked and vulnerable and standing in a strange man’s bathroom.
I couldn’t stop the Hitchock shower scene from rushing to my head. I pushed it away and focused on the real concern. He might see my naked, completely naked, in the lit up bathroom.
“Hello?” I asked, knowing I sounded like the dumb chick in a scary movie.
“It’s just me,” Mr. Cooper responded.
“I thought I locked the door,” I said.
“Oh, that lock doesn’t work,” he said. “If you want me to leave I can.”
I didn’t know what to say. One part of me wanted him to leave and the other part was begging for him to climb into the shower with me.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
I wanted to but I couldn’t find my voice.
I realized I was playing with my clit. The soap had washed away and I was still cleaning myself over and over and over again.
The light went out. And I was there in the darkness. I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face.
“Maybe this will help,” he said. “We can feel our way through.”