by Caralee Levy
(01/08/03)

Soap is a wonderful thing. It greases the palms as they slide over the body, leaving behind trails of bubbles and a strong smell of clean. It changes the way a body feels, transmitting less surface texture and more of the underlying form.

Soap feels best on Lise.

Lise teaches aerobics at the gym I go to. She's their best instructor -- comes on time, knows her routines inside and out, and makes up new moves every week. I appreciate her teaching ability, but the real reason she's my favorite instructor is because of the way her ass rounds out her spandex shorts. When we do glute squeezes -- oh my! I'm her most attentive student.

After class we shower. Not just Lise and me, of course. All the women pile into the shower room, but I'm only aware of Lise. I wait for her to pick her showerhead, then try to get one for myself that offers a view without being too obvious. There's only so much neck-twisting one can do as part of washing.

I've worked on my staring technique, too. I've just about perfected that unfocused gaze somewhere to the side of my target while she lathers herself tantalizingly in my peripheral vision. My blonde water nymph with the beautiful, round ass.

Once by accident my stare centered on, not the tiled wall, but a skinny-but-still-flabby woman whose every twitchy movement screamed, "Group showers are immoral!" I wasn't really looking at her, of course, and didn't even see her until she snatched her oversized towel and stomped off, probably to complain to the desk clerk. Lise didn't seem to notice. She went on soaping her stomach, working the suds up under her firm, white, bowl-shaped breasts. She seemed lost under the hot water, lost in some idle reverie of pleasure. I went back to staring at the tiled wall where the uptight lady had been, and I washed my crotch a long time.

I wasn't expecting to see Lise Tuesday evening. Normally the last class before closing time was taught by a tall, hairy guy who could never get the mike to work. He'd called in sick though, and Lise was subbing. She hadn't expected to teach, so instead of the oversized T-shirt she usually wore in class, she was in a black spandex unitard cut really high in back and really low in front. I followed her every sweaty move and got a great workout.

Afterwards, the shower. Class attendance had been light, and the other women hurried through the locker room, wanting to get home or hit the clubs. Lise didn't hurry though, and neither did I. The lights blinked three times. A desk clerk came through, saw us and said, "Doors close in ten minutes."

"We'll be out," Lise said, and the desk clerk smiled and left, believing Lise because she was an instructor.

Lise turned off her water and walked across the damp floor toward me, bare feet leaving beautiful, curved, watery prints behind her. "May I borrow some soap?" she asked.

I wanted to touch her so badly I could hardly speak. "Sure," I managed.

She reached through the curtain of water to the soap dispenser on the wall. Where her slick, nude body slid against mine, it left a prickling sensation like static cling. Isn't water a good conductor of electricity? I think it is.

Lise squirted a dab of soap into her palm, then looked at me, her lips a few inches from mine. Water glazed her long, blonde hair and streamed down her face. Her tongue flicked out, cleaning a droplet off her top lip. Without thinking -- if I'd thought I wouldn't have dared to do it -- I put my hand on her forehead to shelter her eyes and nose from the downpour. Another burst of prickling electrical energy surged between us, and she seized my hand, leaned forward, and kissed me on the lips. My hand slid out of her slick, soapy one, but my lips returned her pressure.

"I know what you want," she whispered, "but we'll turn into prunes if we stay under the water until the staff all leave."

Heart pounding and face blushing -- she knew what I wanted, she'd probably seen me watching her! -- I turned off my own water. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed the lever on the liquid soap dispenser. Golden soap with the consistency of honey poured into her hand.

She took my hands in hers and began to wash them. Through the soap, her skin seemed to be dissolving into mine -- and mine into hers. My juice began to flow, and my clit felt hot. I'd had orgasms before that started in my ears, but my fingers?

Then she began pinching me, my knuckles, the tips of my fingers. With each squeeze pleasure rippled up my pussy. Despite the need for quiet, I began to gasp, my sounds reverberating breathily in the tiled room.

"Shhh," she said, but her own breathing was coming faster, her full-moon breasts rising and falling, too firm to jiggle. In unison, as if we both felt our knees get wobbly, we spread our legs wider for balance.

Then the lights went out except for the EXIT sign that glowed red over the door to the pool. We stopped, waiting and listening. My cunt wanted her soapy fingers. A faucet dripped slowly. No one came back to make sure we were gone.

"We're alone," Lisa murmured. "The maintenance crews don't come in until five AM. We're all alone. We can do anything we want."

"I want to wash you."

"Let's go into the steam room. Soap up first, and fill your hands with soap."

Bumping and sliding against each other in the dark, we covered our bodies in liquid soap and filled each other's cupped hands. Then we felt our way along the wall, slipping and sliding into unexpected body parts, to the steam room. Lise had no trouble finding the steam button in the dark with her elbow. I got the feeling this wasn't the first time she'd done this.

Steam began hissing from the vent in the floor. Hot moisture crept over my skin. I inhaled and felt the moist air fill my lungs heavily, just like desire filled my pussy. We dribbled soap over the tiled, step-like benches, coating a section about a body length wide. Then I couldn't stand it anymore. I snaked a slippery arm around Lise's waist and pulled her close. We were the same height. Our triangles of hair met and ground against each other like little washcloths.

"I want to wash you with my body," I said.

Lise stretched out on her back on the lowest bench. The steam was really coming on now. I started with her feet, pinching her toes and squeezing her ankles the way she had done with my hands. I moved up her smooth, strong legs which I knew were covered in a dark tan. Then I tangled my fingers gently in her triangle, churning it until it was piled high with foam. She moaned and tried to push my hands back down as I moved on to caress the slight swelling of her stomach, but after a bit of light wrestling I persisted, finally working my way up to those wonderful hand-filling breasts with their hard, pink nipples. I rocked, my bottom sliding up and down her thighs while my hands massaged her breasts. She twisted beneath me, her legs alternately clenching and spreading.

Again, she tried to push my hands back to her cunt, but I redirected her hands, putting them on my breasts instead. Then I swirled my fingers delicately over her neck, her face, her scalp, her ears. She clutched my breasts, squeezing a little with each little moan she let out. My own nipples were becoming hypersensitive, but the soap made even her hardest pressure painless.

Then I sat up, grabbed her by the hips, and flipped her over. Sliding on the soapy carpet, she moved easily. I grabbed that sweet ass of hers, squeezed it, kneaded it, buried my face in it. Then I slid my fingers home, into a cavern hotter and wetter than any steam room. One hand braced on her cushion, I delved deeper and deeper with my fingers while stroking her clit with my thumb. She began to scream, "Yes! Yes!" just like Meg Ryan in that movie. I hoped we were really alone.

Finally she grabbed the side of the bench and belly-flopped on the floor, where she slid almost to the opposite wall. Using it to brace herself on the slippery floor, she sat up.

"Your turn," she gasped.

Oh, Lise, you are an expert with soap. Back and forth across the tiles, you worked me with your whole body. I wasn't sure where my orgasms began and ended. The best was when you put me on my stomach and straddled my shoulders. While fighting to pin my arms to the floor with your equally slippery shins, you pressed the palms of your hands into the backs of my knees. Your breasts slid rhythmically against my ass, and you wedged your chin against my cunt. How I howled, not caring how deeply I inhaled the nearly scalding air.

We still shower together after your class. Watching you absently run your hands over your stomach or ass, savoring the flow of hot water over your body, makes my clit twitch. After I towel off and walk from the shower room to my locker, I'm still damp and slick between my legs. Feels like soap.

We smile and say hello in a friendly way when we pass, just like we used to. I keep attending the last class at night, just in case you sub again, but we haven't had a chance to repeat our steam room tryst. I keep hoping you want to as much as I do.

And I wonder at your experience, your knowledge of soap. There must have been others. Are they members of this gym, too? Are they showering with us now? What about that one over there, dark-haired and statuesque, taking special care to wash under her champagne-glass breasts, nipples hard and peaked? Isn't she taking a lot longer than she needs to? Isn't she watching you from the corner of her eye, hoping?

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