Shower Discovery: Virgin Couple's First Touch

The upstairs bathroom of Kendra's apartment was already full of steam when Barrett pushed the door open, clean towels under his arm. He was nineteen, and he had not knocked. Joanna had told him she was only going downstairs for water. The glass sat empty on the counter. Through the fogged shower glass she stood completely naked under the running spray, and the sight stopped him cold.

She was nineteen too. They had been best friends since the week they both turned eighteen, and for the past year that easy closeness had been edged with a want neither of them would name. House-sitting for Kendra, their mutual friend, was meant to be simple: one quiet weekend in her apartment, water the plants, sleep in the guest room, don't touch the good wine. Barrett had not planned on walking in on the only girl he had wanted since he turned eighteen and finally let himself want her.

Joanna turned her head. Wet hair clung to her shoulders. Water streamed over her breasts, nipples tight, down her stomach, into the dark curls between her thighs. Her untouched body glistened. She froze. He froze. The towels hit the tile. His cock swelled hard against his jeans. Her eyes caught the bulge, then lifted to his face, wide and hungry. Desire hit them both at once, sudden and mutual, a year of almost burning up in the steam.

"Barrett," she said.

He should have backed out. His hand locked on the frame. "I thought you were downstairs. I can see all of you."

She did not cover herself. Water slid between her breasts. "Then stop pretending you don't want to."

His pulse hammered in his throat. She was flushed from the heat, soap suds slipping down one hip, every inch of her offered up by accident and by the way she refused to hide. He had imagined this in the dark of his own bed for months. The real thing was worse, better, unbearable. "Joanna," he said, wrecked. "If I stay, I'm not going to be able to keep my hands off you."

Instead of fleeing, Joanna met his hungry gaze through the steamed glass. Her chest rose and fell. Slowly, she reached out and opened the shower door, an invitation clear as the water running off her fingers.

"Then come in," she said. "I want your hands on me. Nobody has ever touched me, Barrett. I want you to be the first."

He stepped inside fully clothed. The spray soaked his T-shirt in seconds, plastered his jeans to his thighs and to the hard ridge of his cock. He stopped a breath from her, shaking, and lifted his hands like he was asking permission he already had.

"Yes," she whispered. "Touch me. I've wanted this since we turned eighteen and I realized I couldn't sit next to you without getting wet. A whole year. I'm done pretending."

His fingers traced her breast, shy at first, learning the soft weight, the tight peak of her nipple. She gasped. He circled it with his thumb, then cupped her fully, and the sound she made went straight to his cock. His other hand joined, both palms on her, mapping what he had only dreamed. She arched into him, water streaming over his wrists.

Her own hands hovered, then dropped. She pressed her palm to the growing bulge in his jeans and felt him throb. "You're hard already," she said, almost laughing, almost moaning. "From just looking."

"From a year of looking and not being allowed to do this." He kissed her, messy and deep, and she stroked him through the soaked denim, tentative, squeezing when he groaned into her mouth. "Tell me again that you want it."

"I want it. I want your fingers. I want to feel you. I touched myself in this shower last night and pretended it was your hand, and I still didn't know how to ask." Her strokes grew bolder, shy curiosity turning hungry. "How long have you wanted to touch me?"

"Since the week we turned eighteen," he said against her mouth, pinching her nipple until she whimpered. "Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder at Kendra's, I sat there hard and useless. I went home and came thinking about your tits. About spreading you open. I never let it be anyone else in my head. Only you."

"Only you," she echoed, grinding her palm along his length. "So don't stop. Learn me. I'm yours to learn."

They stood under the spray, trembling, his hands worshipping her breasts, her hand working the thick shape of him through wet denim, whispering every swallowed want until the need between them felt like it might split the tile.

"Clothes off," she said, dragging at his shirt. "I need you bare. I need to see what I've been stroking."

He yanked the T-shirt over his head and let it slap to the floor of the stall. She fought his belt. He helped, shoving wet jeans and briefs down, kicking them aside. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, precum shining at the tip, and Joanna stared, lips parted, a virgin looking at the first cock she had ever wanted inside her.

"Okay?" he asked.

"More than okay. You're beautiful. And you're mine tonight."

He grabbed the soap and lathered his hands, turning her so her back met his chest, his cock hot against her ass. "Let me wash you. Let me put my fingers on your pussy before I taste it."

She spread her feet. His soapy fingers slid through her curls and between her thighs, spreading her virgin folds, circling her clit, gliding down to tease her tight entrance without pushing in. She cried out, knees buckling, and he held her up, one arm under her breasts, fingers learning every slick inch. He washed her slowly, thoroughly, until soap and her own arousal coated his hand and she was rocking against him, begging in broken whispers.

"Please, Barrett. It feels so good. Nobody's ever— oh fuck, right there."

He rinsed her with clean water and did it again, filthier, two fingers stroking her slit, thumb on her clit, until she was dripping and shaking.

Then he dropped to his knees. Water pounded his shoulders. He looked up, asking, and she grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth to her.

The first lick was careful. The second was starving. He dragged his tongue through her folds, sucked her clit, groaned against her like he had waited a year for this taste, because he had. Joanna's head hit the tile. Pleasure tore through her in bright shocks. She had never been tasted, never been held open and eaten, and she ground against his mouth, shameless, saying his name like a curse.

"Don't stop— I'm coming— Barrett, I'm coming on your tongue—"

She came hard, thighs clamping his ears, pussy fluttering against his mouth while he licked her through it, drinking her until she whimpered and tugged him off, oversensitive and wrecked.

He stood, chin wet. She wrapped her hand around his cock, shy and eager, stroking the thick length, learning the ridge under the head, the way he pulsed when she squeezed.

"I want to suck you," she said. "Tell me if I'm bad at it."

"You can't be bad at it. Get on your knees for me."

She sank down in the spray and took him into her mouth. The stretch made her eyes water. She sucked shallowly, hand working what she couldn't take, tongue swirling, messy and earnest, drool mixing with shower water on her chin. Barrett braced a palm on the tile and cursed, hips twitching, watching his cock disappear between her lips. She found a rhythm, bobbing, sucking harder when he groaned, and she stayed there until his thighs started to shake.

"Up," he rasped. "I need to be inside you. Only if you want my cock in that tight little pussy. Say yes."

"Yes. I want it. I want you to fuck me. I've never had anyone. Be my first. Put it in."

He turned her to the tiled wall, kissed her desperately, and lifted one of her legs, hooking her knee over his forearm so she was open. His thick cock nudged her soaked entrance. She was impossibly tight. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, pausing when she gasped, whispering that she was taking him so well, that he would stop if she said the word. She didn't. She pushed back, moaning, and he sank the rest of the way into her never-touched pussy, buried to the hilt, both of them shaking.

"Move," she begged against his mouth. "Fuck me. I can take it."

He thrust, shallow, then deeper, standing against the wall with her leg lifted, kissing her like he might die if he stopped. Wet skin slapped. His confidence grew with every cry she gave him. He fucked her harder, one hand mauling her breast, pinching her nipple, the other gripping her thigh to keep her spread. She reached down and rubbed her clit, and a second orgasm ripped through her while he was inside, her pussy clenching around his virgin cock so hard he swore.

"I'm close," he groaned. "Where do you want it?"

"On my tits. Pull out and come on me. I want to wear it."

He pulled out with a wet sound, spun her, and stroked himself twice. Thick ropes of cum spilled across her wet breasts, striping her nipples, dripping down her stomach into the spray. She watched, flushed and ruined, and smeared it over her skin with her fingers, filthy and proud.

They rinsed each other under the spray, his fingers pushing back into her swollen pussy to feel what he had done to her, hers milking the last drops from his cock onto her wrist. They killed the water, dragged oversized towels over wet skin, and stumbled to the guest bed still half-hard and dripping.

All night they used each other. She rode him until she came. He fucked her from behind, then on her back with her legs shoved up, then let her suck him until he painted her stomach again. They finally fell asleep tangled together, both already planning to spend the rest of the weekend fucking through every new position they could invent.

Joanna's last mumble before sleep was pure filth. "Wake me up with your cock in my sore pussy and don't pull out until you've pumped me full of cum."