The Bathhouse: Part 3
You can take the girl out of the bathhouse, but you can’t take the bathhouse out of her kinky head.
Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 2
Wednesday.
Two days ago I let a stranger lick my pussy, finger me with cum-covered hands, and fuck my face with a large uncut cock.
And I would do it again.
Not only would I do it again, it’s taken significant self-restraint on at least a dozen occasions since Monday not to return to the bathhouse for a repeat performance. Although my efforts to keep my body out of the bathhouse have succeeded, my mind travels to that dim room constantly, dropping me onto the table where brusque hands rub tirelessly and black eyes shine lustfully. He raises his head from between my legs to smile mischievously, then rises to his full height, his manhood exposed and thrusting proudly. He leans his hips toward me to push the tip of his cock against my slit and I am trembli— I fling my eyes open and fill my cheeks with a deep breath to banish the image. The fantasizing is getting out of hand.
Returning to the bathhouse was never a question. I knew as soon as I melted against his beating heart that I would accept whatever he would be willing to give.
No, that’s wrong. I may have been in denial until I offered my kiss, but in truth I knew as soon as he spoke. Simply recalling those words, “Top off. Lie down.”, sends a shiver down my spine and into my deepest parts - the secret cave that he has only just begun to explore. I want him to know all of it, every cranny. I want to be absolutely filled with him.
Fuckkk, I think, feeling wetness seep between my legs. I debate changing my panties again, but I have gone through too many pairs already this week and at this rate I’ll be out by the evening.
Which is perfect timing, if you go back this evening, a voice in my head prompts with a smirking wink. I roll my eyes inwardly at this, but I have to admit she has a point. “She” being my slutty (she prefers “provocative”) alter-ego who lounges at the back of my mind on a large satin pillow like a sultan’s most prized courtesan, seemingly always with a knowing smile and sultry eyes, trailing a finger over the edge of some crystal pool of infinite depth. She has been piping up a lot over the past two days. I rub my legs together in frustration. I am afraid to appear overeager - both to him and to my boyfriend. Two days might be too soon. But it is not too soon to visit the sauna and cold plunge again. I could do that every day.
“And I don’t have to see him just because I’m there,” I reason. The Courtesan nods sagely, but I know she’s being facetious. She’s right. She’s always right. Of course I would try to see him if I went, and it would be wrong to do so without my boyfriend’s approval. Better to stay away from the bathhouse entirely and keep the man with the shaved head in my fantasies.
But he did tell me to come back, I think. The more I replay the memory, the more certain I am that it was a command, or at least that I desperately need it to have been a command. I feel giddy just imagining the sweet relief it would be to abdicate responsibility and simply succumb to his desire. How good it would feel to not merely yield to his lust, but manifest it - to embody its every expression: the sharpness of each inhalation, the golden radiance of each singing nerve, all at his whim. I feel the tightness of my secret walls building and grind my pelvis against my chair in vexation. It’s too much.
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