Chapter 8: The Shower’s False Refuge

Warm water streamed over Jaime, a fleeting balm as she scrubbed away Reggie’s cum, soap bubbles spiraling down the drain like fleeting ghosts of her violation. She closed her eyes, letting the cascade drown her thoughts, a fragile solitude amid the storm. Her mind reeled, numb from the night’s atrocities, the rush of water a soft roar muffling the grim echo.

Why wouldn’t her body yield? A slick, humiliating tide kept surging, defying her loathing for Reggie—a visceral hatred that gnawed her soul. In his lap, his tattooed hands had gripped her waist with a repellent mastery, forcing her to practice sliding his shaft into her, her juices—hot, shameful—flooding uncontrollably, staining him, the sheet a dark blotch of disgrace.

Revulsion churned, a bitter maelstrom, yet her flesh betrayed her, wetter than ever for Steve—her cherished, handsome husband—not even a whisper of this deluge. Reggie, with his inked scars and menacing bulk, was her antithesis; she’d never desired Black men, his presence a spark to her disgust.

The breakfast Reggie had force fed her while she sat on his lap rehearsing with his penis, lingered, a chemical tang veiled in sickly sweetness, mirroring the water Torres forced down her throat last night. It gnawed at her, a sinister thread in her body’s rebellion, fanning her shame into a blazing inferno.

Lost in her turmoil, she didn’t hear Reggie’s silent steps through the steamy haze, the air thick as a sodden cloak. Encouraged by Torres, he slipped into the shower, steam curling around them like a conspirator’s veil. As her hand reached to kill the flow, his arms ensnared her, wrenching her from the faucet with a jolt. She thrashed, a trapped bird in his grip.

“Oh my God—what are you doing here?” Her voice quaked, shoving against him.

His hold tightened, pressing her bare skin to his, his flaccid cock nudging her buttock—a sickening weight. “No ... let go,” she gasped, discomfort flooding her.

“Relax, baby. Captain said join you—since we sharin’, why not wash each other? What you think?” His growl was low, commanding.

“I-I’ve showered ... I was leaving,” she stammered, voice fracturing.

“Don’t lie,” he sneered, grabbing her roughly, spinning her to face him against the cold stone wall. His eyes locked on her crucifix, glinting between her breasts. “Lather that soap—clean my cock like a good girl.”

“P-please ... what if the Captain catches us?” she pleaded, dread clawing at the thought of exposure.

He forced her hand to his shaft, grip iron. “Captain wants us tight—said get to know each other. You gon’ play with my cock, make me hard,” he rasped, breath scorching her neck. Her stomach twisted, but she stroked, revulsion a bitter tide.

Her fingers wrapped his girth, pulsing life beneath her touch, disgust a leaden weight as it swelled—harder, heavier, a beast rousing for her ruin. Each stroke fueled her loathing, yet she couldn’t stop, a prisoner to his will, the thought of another violation a knife in her gut.

“Yeah, that’s nice, baby. You likin’ makin’ me hard—been too long since I had a girl like you. You into big Black dick yet?” His smugness was a lash.