You stop, forgetting the relaxing bath you’d anticipated since leaving work. She lounges in your tub, nubile and lovely, running her hand up and down her thigh.
Who is she? How’d she get in?
She fiddles with the shower head, saying nothing. Just watching. Watching you with her dark, inviting eyes. Softly stroking her creamy thigh. Up and down.
What’s she doing here? What on earth does she want?
She bites her lip, soft and pink, inviting. She crosses one foot over the other in a lazy arc, but never stops stroking her thigh. Up and down.
Up and down.
Why’s it so warm in here? The water isn’t even on. Why isn’t she saying anything?
She just reclines there, comfortable on the cool porcelain. As though it’s her tub. As though she’s not an intruder.
Why aren’t I saying anything?
She keeps stroking her thigh. Up and down.
Why can’t I move? Why… can’t I remember why I’m here?
Up and down. Smooth and soft. So inviting.
Why… is it so hard… to remember?
What’s… what’s she doing to me?
Up and down. Soft and quiet. Smooth and still. Up and down.
It’s so hard… to think…