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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.
Holyshit.
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.
“Just, breathe,” I mutter into the steam. “Think of something…” I’m not sure if self-talk is the way to go right now, but I already know what’s coming next.
Where my dirty mind is headed.
Yes, Father. I have sinned.
That’s the ticket. A swelling burst of shuddering wonder stutters my breath, flexing whatever muscles that connect to the gathering delight in my core.
That’s it. Rightthere.
Do all clits look the same? Or, are they like…dicks? Not that I’ve seen any in person, just the pictures my friends would flash at me from their phones and from what I’ve gathered, there is a wide variety. But clits?
I’ve never been a porn girl, and the worst my dad had tucked in his nightstand was an ancient Playboy so there was plenty ofbush in the 80’s but none of the inner workings, so to speak, were on display.
I’m working myself out with the tips of my fingers and it’s easy to find. As the pleasure gathers, it gets harder, a little longer, longer than—for whatever reason—I think is normal, but, gah, can I quit critiquing myself right now? I’m the only one here, who the fuck cares what my clit looks like?
That single jet of hot water is dangerously close to the apex of growing tension between my legs and I swivel my butt on the wet marble, making a weird squeak sort of farting sound where I’m stuck until I manage to maneuver myself into the perfect position.
“Oh shit.” The back of my head bounces on the stone wall as I spin my fingers on my slick open folds while the tiny jets of water dance just below.
He’s there in my mind’s eye as clear as if he was standing under the water with me. His darkness surrounded by light. Jawline square as he stares down at me, spread for him. Wide, depraved, a temptress.
“You would tempt Jesus himself into the flames of hell, Kitten? One taste and I’ll fall from grace, is that what you want?”
“Yes.” I answer into the shower spray. “I mean, no.” I mumble, steamy air thick with every breath as I imagine Father Martin’s touch, his lips, lower, down, down… “Maybe?”
“I’ve prayed on my knees many times.”The vision spins, takes flight, his black robe dropping from his shoulders, exposing a torso thick with tension, flat lines of muscle covered with swirls and thick letters.
