After the Run

Watersports The shower in Ruth's flat was too small for two people and they used it anyway. Dean had mud up his calves. She had a stitch in her side and the particular looseness that came after nine kilometres in the rain.

They were both laughing when they got under the water, which mattered. The other thing, the thing they had talked about on the canal path until the talking turned into a dare, needed the laugh or it would have felt like a stunt. Ruth was thirty-seven.

Dean was thirty-five. They had been fucking for four months and pissing near each other, awkwardly, for most of that, because her bathroom had a door that did not quite shut. Two nights ago she had said, plainly, that she wanted him to piss on her.

He had gone quiet, then hard, then asked what the edges were. No mouth, she had said. Chest, stomach, cunt.

She would say stop if she wanted stop. He would go before he was desperate, not after. Towels already on the floor.

They had practised the ask on the canal, which was a stupid place for it and somehow the right one. Runners passed. Ruth had said the words without lowering her voice.

Dean had missed a stride.

"In the shower," he had said.

"Not the bed. I want to see it on you and then wash it off, or not, if you say not." "Not," she had said.

"Not straight away." "Still that?" he said now, over the water.

"Still that. You?" "Yeah. I'm nervous." "Good.

Nervous means you're here." She turned the shower off. The room stayed warm. Ruth sat on the tiled floor with her back against the wall, knees apart, and looked up at him.

Water ran off his stomach. His cock was half hard from the looking and from the run and from four months of being wanted.

"Come closer." He stepped between her knees. For a moment nothing happened. Then it did: a hot stream, startling, striking her chest and running down between her breasts.

Ruth gasped. Not pain. Heat, and the filthy fact of it, and the way he was watching her face like the face was the point.

"Okay?" "Don't stop." He didn't. It coursed over her stomach, into her navel, down to her cunt. She put a hand there and felt it wash over her fingers, over her clit, and the shock of that went straight into a throb.

Dean swore under his breath. His stream faltered when he saw her touch herself, then steadied.

"You look - " "Say it." "Obscene. You look obscene. I didn't think I'd like it this much." "I did." The stream thinned.

He shook the last of it onto her thigh. Ruth was soaked in a different way now, skin shining, and she did not feel ridiculous. She felt claimed by a thing they had both decided to do in a too-small shower on a Thursday.

She rubbed it over her tits, slow, letting him see. Dean's cock was fully hard. A drop of piss clung to her nipple.

She caught it on her finger and wiped it on his thigh, marking him back.

"You going to get shy on me now?" she said.

"No. I'm going to think about that finger for a week." "My turn," she said. Dean blinked.

"You want to." "I said I might. Kneel." He knelt. She stood over him, one hand on the rail, and let go across his chest.

It was harder to aim than she expected. It striped him from collarbone to stomach. He groaned, actually groaned, and his cock jumped.

When she finished she was shaking with how much she wanted him.

"Fuck me," she said.

"Here. I'm not getting civilised first." He sat and pulled her into his lap. The tile was slick.

She sank onto his cock in one push and they both made a sound that bounced off the glass. She rode him hard, his hands on her wet waist, the smell of skin and piss and shower gel turning into nothing but sex. He sucked a nipple and told her she was filthy and beautiful and he was going to think about this on every run for a month.

The tile squeaked under his heels. She reached down and felt where they joined, slick with more than one thing, and used the heel of her hand on her clit.

"Stay in," she said.

"I want to come on it like this. Don't you dare get polite." "Not polite. Not even close." Ruth came with her forehead against his, cunt pulsing, a laugh caught in it.

Dean followed, spilling inside her, arms locked around her back like the shower might tilt. They stayed until the water on their skin went cool.

"Towels," she said.

"In a minute." "The floor is a crime scene." "Our crime scene." She flicked his ear. He kissed her mouth, ordinary again, which was the part she had not known she needed. Afterwards, before the towels, she turned the shower on warm and they stood under it without speaking.

Dean washed her chest with his hands, not to erase the thing, just to feel it again. Ruth caught his wrist.

"Leave a bit," she said.

"I want to walk to the bedroom like this." "The carpet." "I'll allow the carpet to suffer." He laughed into her wet hair. His cock, spent, twitched against her hip at the idea of the walk. She filed that away for Saturday.

"Same time Saturday?" he said.

"Bring the shorter route. I want enough left in me to do that twice."