CHASE
This summer turned into a fever dream of f*****g.
The shower was our sanctuary in those first reckless weeks. We’d thrown the “only when they’re not home” rule out the window. Hot water drowned out every gasp, every wet slap of skin, every broken moan she tried to choke back. I’d pull her in after morning skate or in the dead of night, strip her bare in seconds, pin her against the tiles—chest to her back—and hoist one of her legs high to sink in deep from behind.
That angle—her balanced on one foot, my arm hooked under her thigh, spreading her wide—let me hit every spot that made her tremble. I’d start slow, letting her feel every inch dragging out and slamming back in, then build—faster, harder—until the water pounded down and her forehead pressed against the tile, mouth open in
