Electric Tooth Brush

Odette Delacroix strips off her clothes each Sunday and eases into the bath like a slow exhale. Her hands move over skin soft from the steam, pushing soap between her small breasts and down the ridges of her ribs, the warm water sliding toward the curve of her belly. Alone again. She wishes another set of hands were here, knuckles scraping gently across her pale skin, thumbs circling those neat pink nipples until they stand stiff and needy. She finishes the bath anyway. Towel looped around her ribs, she reaches for the toothbrush and pauses—the motorized hum hits her in the chest. She flicks it back on and drops the towel, taps the trembling head to one taut nipple. Pleasure jolts down her breast. She tries the other. The buzz travels lower, over the taut column of her throat, and she sighs at the thought of a stranger’s mouth. On the lip of the tub she plants her heels and lets her knees fall open. The air touches her bare slit, tight and already glossy. She wets the brush with her tongue and circles it over the swollen nub. A low, pulsing ache spreads. Curious, she slides one finger toward her opening, but even slick with need the tender muscle refuses to give; she lets the idea go. The brush returns, riding that throbbing spot in patient strokes until the knot inside her breaks—fast, sharp, toes curling on porcelain. The toothbrush falls silent in her hand. Odette sits there slick, breathless, and faintly smiling. Maybe Sundays can get better.