Someone else’s shower
It’s been nearly a year since I moved out of my old flat in Newcastle, and there are only two things I miss: the huge corner bathtub and the tumble dryer.
I can make do with the smaller bath, but the lack of a tumble dryer is something I still haven’t adjusted to. The flat is pretty cramped so there isn’t really anywhere to put one, which means we’re resigned to drying laundry on the radiators or on the heated clothes rack in the kitchen. A heated clothes rack sounds like a great idea but in fact it takes forever to dry anything, as I keep finding out when I go to get clean underwear in the morning and everything on the dryer is still damp. It’s a good thing I don’t mind going out in not-quite-dry underwear, that’s all I can say. I don’t know how “normal” people manage.
This morning was one of those mornings when I had no option but to put on damp knickers1. I was already running late for my morning appointment because I’d been distracted by an email; I’m delighted to be able to report that yes, there are other women out there who enjoy getting their clothes wet, and I’ve been involved in an email conversation with one over the past few days. She’s in a different time zone, so this morning I woke up to an email describing how she was at work and looking forward to going home and soaking her office clothes. This is something else I miss, because since I went freelance I do most of my work from home. Of course this means that I don’t have to follow anyone else’s dress code and if I want to drench myself in the shower and do my work soaking wet, I can – and I have – but sometimes I miss the anticipation of sitting in the office just itching to get wet but having to maintain the illusion of respectability, despite knowing that all the clothes I’m wearing in this important meeting are going to be totally drenched and clinging to me within five minutes of getting home.
Anyway, I couldn’t get on with my day until I’d replied to that email, so once I’d finished I grabbed some undies from the rack and went to get dressed. They were actually quite a bit damper than I had expected, but I was feeling a bit frisky after reading my friend’s email, so I put them on anyway. I still had a dry bra to wear, so I put that on and pulled on a long sleeved top and jeans, grabbed a jacket and my bag and hurried out of the front door.
This morning I wasn’t heading to anyone’s office, I was off to look after someone’s cats, one of my other money spinners. Being freelance isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be, especially when it comes to paying the bills. Still, it means I get to spend time with cats instead of people. After a ten minute drive I pulled up at the house and let myself in.
With the thought of my friend soaking her work clothes still fresh in my mind, and my own wet underwear caressing my hips and bum and making my jeans a little bit damp, I was feeling quite excitable as I went about my business: feeding the cats, giving them fresh water, even cleaning out their litter tray didn’t dampen my excitement2. I remembered a story someone else once told me online about working in a pub in wet clothes and having to make up an excuse about why he was wet. This was the closest I’d come to being in wet clothes in the workplace, as opposed to just when working from home.
Then an outrageous thought hit me. Technically I was “working from home”, just not my home. I was on my own, apart from the cats. If I wanted to soak my clothes, there was nobody here to stop me.
My heart started pounding. Taking a fully clothed shower in my own house was one thing, but doing it in someone else’s house was a thousand times more daring. What if I got caught? I knew I almost certainly wouldn’t, but what if I did? How would I explain myself?
Right, stop this, I told myself. You’re a professional, you’re in someone else’s house to look after their cats and nothing else. You can’t be walking about someone’s house soaking wet, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. What if they’ve got cameras hidden about the place? And you won’t have time to dry off and it’s too cold to go home soaking wet in February.
But I wouldn’t have to go home in wet clothes. Kim, the woman whose cats I was looking after, was roughly the same size as me. I could borrow some of her clothes to go home in, and return them when I came back to do the evening visit, and nobody would be any the wiser.
Or… I could strip out of my own clothes now, put on some of Kim’s clothes, and then get wet in them.
My mind was really running away from me now. This was ridiculous. And yet, here I was, seriously considering it.
I went to check out Kim’s bathroom. She had a reasonably sized bath with an electric shower on the wall, nothing spectacular, but there was a clothes rack in there with some of her gym clothes on it – a pink long sleeved running top and black leggings, the quick drying kind. This was too good an opportunity to turn down.
In a flash I had my shoes and socks off, stripped down to my underwear and pulled on Kim’s top and leggings. It didn’t seem right to go commando in them, although the fact that what I was doing was inherently wrong anyway didn’t really register, I was too excited. Quickly I turned on the shower and, without even waiting for it to warm up, stepped in.
Kim’s clothes were a size bigger than mine, so they weren’t quite as tight fitting as I expected, but that changed once the water hit them. The pink top clung tightly to my body, highlighting the outline of my bra underneath, and the black leggings moulded themselves to my legs with a glossy sheen. I was a mess of emotions: aroused by the attention of the wet material on my skin, breathlessly excited at the thought that I was soaking someone else’s clothes, and increasingly fearful of getting caught. I knew Kim wouldn’t be back for days, but still, what if someone else had a key? I hadn’t thought of that. I wanted to stay in the shower but anxiety got the better of me and I turned off the water.
I stood for a moment, dripping, Kim’s clothes plastered to my body. I wondered if she had ever done what I was doing now. Was that why the clothes were hanging up to dry? Had she come home from a run and hopped straight into the shower, still in her top and leggings? I allowed myself to imagine that for a while, but still not as long as I would have liked. Time to go.
I peeled off Kim’s wet clothes and cast around for a towel. Drying myself off as best I could, I took off my bra and panties, wrung the worst of the water out of them and put them back on before wriggling back into my own clothes. If I was worried my knickers were a bit damp earlier, they were thoroughly moist now, as was my bra, but my dark coloured top and jeans did their best to hide the wetness underneath. I wrung out Kim’s top and leggings and put them back where I found them, hanging the towel up with them to dry off. Then, after making sure the cats were okay, I headed home to finish what I’d started.
I felt a bit guilty when I returned for my evening visit, but the clothes were almost dry again. In the morning the towel will be dry, I’ll put it back where I found it, and Kim will never know I showered wearing her clothes. Unless she reads my blog, of course…