Spreading the gel across my fingertips, I attacked my breasts with renewed vigor, smearing the soap across them, squeezing, plumping, enjoying the slick feeling of my own hands gliding across my skin. I stopped at the nipples, applying the soap generously and then leaned up enough to blow across them. I wished for a mouth—moist lips, a hot, wet tongue—to pleasure me, and then I twisted the nipples almost angrily. The sensation—the combination of pain and pleasure made me moan.
I dipped down into the water, scrubbed at my breasts—pinched, squeezed—until the soap was completely gone.
The water splashed around me. Pressure pressed me down until only my head remained above water. I struggled against the force, thrashed against a weight that refused to yield.
Screaming proved just as useless. Something clamped over my mouth; all that emerged were muffled protests.
“Say yes,” whispered a voice in my ear. Something wet and cold followed the words inside, sliding around the outer ear canal before retreating to trace the curve of my ear. “Or, no.” The weight released me. “The choice is yours, human.”