Mad ghosts of love

Everything came clattering down as it would in the movies. Shampoos and shower gels got knocked for six, a bar of soap slithered to our feet, a razor scooted down the side of the tub. He fucked me from behind, water splashing between us. Struggling for balance, I bashed a tap. The temperature shot up, making us shriek. That might have got a laugh from an audience. I turned the tap down. Too cold. Up again, better. I flailed for something to hold, grabbed the shower curtain then thought again because curtains cost money and anyway it wouldn’t have worked except as a metaphor for reck-

less passion.

So I braced myself as best I could, one hand on the slippery tiles, another on the tub edge. Steam enshrouded us carrying scents of cosmetics, visions of

vanilla chiffon. Pale streaks of foam spiraled into the drain and vanished.

His hands dug into my hips. In the midst of the vapor and wetness, his cock shored me up, enormous and substantial where I was soft and hidden. They wouldn’t sho