Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
“Well, I did need a bit of a cold shower,” I mutter to myself, the slickness between my legs proof that I need a lusty reset when it comes to Father Martin.
“He’s just being kind. Building trust,” I continue, hoping I’ll listen. “That’s all.”
As I wait for the icy flow to warm, I strip off my clothes, throwing them into a pile by the door and heading into the bedroom to retrieve my cosmetic bag from my suitcase.
I rip away the duct tape, the purple people eater falling at my feet, the charge long gone but the cord is still attached. I look over my shoulder at the empty room, the silence swirling around as I spot an outlet on the other side of the bed.
I plug in the cord, then stuff the vibrator under my pillow, tucking the cord behind the bed just in case Sister Nosey decides to toss my room while I’m gone. There’s at least a chance she won’t find it.
Steam billows out of the bathroom door and as I step into the simple white marble bathroom, I do a once over of myself in the mirror.
Curvy? BBW? Chubby? Fat?
Yeah, all of the above. I love food and since I was little, I was ‘healthy’ as my father would say. Then he’d always add ‘and the prettiest girl God ever put on this earth. And the smartest.’.
I miss him.
I drown myself in the hot water. Thoughts of how Baby used to stand outside my shower waiting to lick the water off my toes when I emerged making my heart heavy.
I wash away the sadness the best I can. Shampoo, conditioner, lavender soap. But, shit, I forgot my razor.
Oh well, I’ll be the only one seeing my stubbly legs for the next thirty days, so maybe it’s time to go natural.
I wiggle my toes on the marble floor of the shower. They are long and bony. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with them. I mean, I love them because they let me stand and function. But, they’d never get me a gig as a foot model, that’s for sure.
I keep them painted most of the time. Sort of a polishing a turd mentality or, what is it they say? Dressing up a pig? I don’t know, but I’m sort of sad I didn’t get a chance to get a pedicure before I was shipped off to old Saint Margaret’s.
Was there even a Saint Margaret? Seems sketchy but without a phone or a laptop, I have no way to confirm who this Margaret is or if she was a saint at all.
As I finish rinsing the silky conditioner from my hair, Father Martin’s face flashes behind my closed lids and the throbbing in my core that’s been torturing me since the airport returns.
For a second, I consider if that purple vibe is waterproof, but getting out of the shower, running for it, hoping it’s charged seems like too much fuss. Besides, it’s my first vibrator and I don’t want to risk blowing it up in the shower. Having to explain why I have third degree burns on my hoo-ha and ask nurse-slash-nun Nathalia for some treatment is not on my bucket list.
Which, brings me to my next point.
Masturbating. Like, I must be the worst or I’m just uninspired because…it’s never appealed to me.
Yeah, I’ve tried it, because, I’m supposed to, right?
Nothing. Like, squeeze my eyes shut, get some…I don’t know, soft porn going in my mind, and graze and explore and rub aaaaaaand….
Nothing.
Like flatline.
But, standing in this small, white shower where other girls have washed away their sin, my hormones and pleasure centers have come online and I feel all things are possible.
Through God.
I make the sign of the cross because…I’m not sure. It makes me feel pre-emptively forgiven for what I’m pretty sure I’m about to do.
Do it. Touch it.
It’s just a clitoris.
It won’t bite.
“Ugggg.” I groan, leaning back onto the cool wall, slipping down into the little ledge seat across from the shower head, bend my knees, planting my heels on the edge and…open my legs.
The water hits me in the eye sockets, which is not setting the stage for a successful self-care session. So I hop up, my feet squeaking on the shower floor, adjust the shower head, glancing down where I was sitting, calculating the aim and trajectory for maximum effect…then sit back down and assume the position.
Holy shit.
A single jet targets my clit and I slap my knees closed, splashing water up my nose, my toes curling, heels slipping on the edge of the marble ledge.
Why is this so hard?
Everyone does it, right?
Birds do it. Bees do it.
Do even educated priests do it?
Smoothing the water from my eyes, I traverse my hand over the softness of my belly, wondering if any guy besides half-drunk Hank will every find a generously fluffy girl like me boner worthy.