tagNon-EroticThe Bath

The Bath

byBeatnic_jazzman©

The Bath
aequora dilectio




Gracie looked at the bath; it was an antique, late Victoriana. It was unusual for more than that though; there was a nub in the centre, a nub that recirculated the water. It recirculated it so that it came out as a jet.

She remembered that it had been a medical fad to cure women of hysteria, stimulating their sexual organs; from such stupid thought sometimes great inventions are brought forth. This particular fad had brought with it the development of the sybian machine, and baths like this.

She could have it plumbed in, in the bedroom of course. Maybe curtained off with a flexible hose so she could pull it out if and when she felt the need.

She wondered how much it would go for in the auction, it would be a bargain at under a couple of hundred, as much as she could afford till next payday.

She went over and registered, this was serendipity. She had been wandering, during the break from court, with nothing to do but wait the afternoon out since giving evidence; the barrister wanted a word with her according to the note so she was forced to wait till court was adjourned.

Her wanderings had brought her here, as the rain threatened outside, and she came in more from that than to attend the auction. Then she had seen the bath and been taken by it, fantasising laying back in it as the jet of warm water worked its magic.

She moved up near the front row as people took their seats, clasping the lollypop number as she settled in the seat. The lot was numbered sixty one, so she wouldn't have long to wait. There were very few other bidders and very little other Victoriana, with luck she would get it cheap.

As the bidding started on the other items she blanked out the sing-song voice of the auctioneer, reflecting on how nice it would be to luxuriate, perhaps playing with her nipples, while the sensations of the warm water washed over her pussy.

She sat, have listening as the lots were sold, ever nearing the number she waited for, she could already feel the water pleasing her, her nipples were hard and her pussy sensitive to the panties squeezing her lips.

She shrugged the coat forwards, fastening a button. Her pussy was tingling as she squirmed, shifting her weight, brushing her sensitised mons over the cushioned chair.

There were ten more items to go, then she would be flashing her number.

The bath itself was ornate, with cast iron lion claws and filigree spreading up from them. It had been painted a ghastly green, but a bit of tender renovation should cure that.

Maybe she would paint it as well, in bold bright colours to celebrate what it was, a backhanded boon to her Victorian ancestors.

The number was up, the lollypop twitched in her hands as the auctioneer lowered the opening bid to twenty five, she raised the paddle tentatively, catching the auctioneer's eye.

Her bid was topped by a bid of thirty, and she counterbid up to forty, the bid went another five and she topped that with fifty.

There were no more bids. The auctioneer announced that it had failed to reach its reserve price and he was withdrawing it. She immediately bid sixty, the auctioneer shook his head. Seventy she shouted. And the auctioneer nodded and banged the gavel down. It was hers.

She arranged to have it delivered for another twenty five, and left the five change from the two fifties as a tip for the auctioneer.

It was dry outside, the rain wouldn't have mattered, she felt elated with her find and nothing could dampen her spirits now.

The spring in her step faltered when the clouds opened with a heavy downpour, she took shelter in a shop doorway watching the drops splash on the roadway.

She held her hand out into the rain, feeling the large drops hitting and coating it, it made her think again of the water, the warm water that would soon be soothing an itch. There was a warm glow in her loins.

When the rain eased her bouncy step took her back to the courthouse, as she mounted the steps she thought of the trial, her evidence, the shoes splattered with bodily fluids, and the vicious beating her ex had inflicted.

She wondered why she had been asked to stay, she'd seen the other witnesses leave, was it she wondered because of her old boyfriend.

She tried to brush the thoughts aside, concentrating instead on her new find, the glorious Victorian bath. The bath that promised hours of fun, the bath that was soon going to be her new BBF.

She turned into the corridor where the robbing rooms were and sat down on the bench. Thinking her happy thoughts had led her to remember the joys of water, the shower head in the holiday hotel.

When she'd first use it to wash 'down under' the thrill had surprised her, she used it to give herself the best orgasm yet, she'd almost collapsed on the shower floor as her knees went weak. Every night that week she'd spent some 'special' time in the bathroom.

Thinking about it now brought a sweet feeling to her nether regions, she wriggled on the hard bench, felt her labia skittering on the ridges of the worn grain through her panties.

She looked round, there was no one about. She twisted putting her foot up on the seat, facing the blind end of the corridor, and slipped her hand under along her thigh.

She slipped her finger under the side elastic, running it down to ease her panties aside, exposing her plump lips. She then turned back, quickly slipping her foot back down to the floor.

From out of her purse she took the fat stubby wooden clad crayon, the one she had stolen from her brother's toddler, its size was perfect for her needs as well as an infant's hands.

Laying it on one of its flats the on bench next to her, she stood and took a step sideways, then sat again, flicking the hem of her dress over the back of the bench.

She slowly rotated her hips, letting the crayon seat itself between her labia. She had been shown this trick by one of her friends in uni, she had used it for long boring lectures, tucked away at the back of the class.

She brought out the earphones for her phone, planting the buds in her ears, now she could appear to be listening to music. Her twitching hips wouldn't now appear so much of an oddity.

She leant slightly forward, hands gripping the edge of the bench. She began to move her hips in a subtle circle, her labia brushing over the grain in the wood. The crayon followed, jerking slightly as it was dragged across the worn wood's ridges.

She settled back into her favourite fantasy, seducing the lead guitarist in her favourite band. The stimulation to her pussy, slight that it was, enhanced the fantasy. This low level sex was an ideal way of passing boring the time away.

She had her ten minutes of pleasure before someone came and disturbed her. She had been at the point where his tongue was probing deep inside her when some lawyer, wig on and gown flowing along behind her, had come traipsing down.

She sighed, and looked at the time on her mobile. It was nearing four, they should all be packing up soon, then she could return home and await the delivery of her new toy. While the corridor was empty she stood and retrieved her pencil, wrapping it in a tissue to absorb her juices.

The prosecutor came down, talking with the defence lawyer, they had not seemed so friendly in court, but she supposed after hours were different. She stood to greet him. He noticed her and after patting his colleague on the arm, he stopped before her.

It was a question of her shoes, those gorgeous tan patent leather high heels, the ones she'd splurged on when she'd seen them on display. Apparently they'd been damaged during the chemical tests, if she could produce the receipt they would reimburse her.

All that waiting when it could have been dealt with in a quick phone call, it left her a little annoyed. Though it would be nice to get the compensation, she'd never wear the shoes again, the thought of all that blood and eyeball fluids would have destined them for the bin.

She waited at home, phoning her brother to come and plumb it in for her on the weekend, he could take the water feed from the washbasin in her room, she rarely used it anyway. She run round, getting the place tidy, especially the bedroom and the wash basket full of her dirty underwear.

She sat, listening to the soft sentimental ballads, full of lost love and yearning. Thinking of the weeks from now when she would be looking for another man to fill her life. Her mood beginning to match the melancholy of the songs.

Her reverie was disturbed by the buzzer from the door below and she answered, pressing the button to let the delivery men in. They struggled with the weight of the cast iron monster, arriving puffing and panting at her first floor door.

She directed them into her bedroom, offering them tea, which they thankfully declined. When they left she carefully examined her prize, some of the old rubber tubing had perished, but that could easily be replaced.

The motor looked old and a bit rusty, but it turned freely enough, that she could have her brother replace if needed. The inside was unblemished, the sintered glass enamel had a few stains round the plug and overflow but they too could be treated, and it was no matter if they didn't improve.

She took her dress off, then her panties, and climbed in. Positioning herself so the nub was up close and personal. As she lay back she imagined the effects of the jets, her hand creeping down to massage her excited pussy, her long fingers pressing either side of her clit.

She was lost in the masturbation, her imagination this time choosing a film star to pleasure her. When she came she pressed her pussy against the nub, using it to further excite her and prolong the sensations coursing through her body.

She lay, sated, looking at the ceiling but seeing visions of the pleasure to come. Had she the tools and the knowledge she would have been under it right now, making it work again. Slowly as she came down from her high, and reality began to settle back into place, she vowed to hurry the work along.

She clambered out, going to the bathroom to shower. She unclipped her bra, throwing it onto the pile of clothes she dropped next to the bath; she'd tidy them up later. Under the shower she detached the rose, washing the juices away and pleasuring herself once more.

She leant back against the wall, now almost exhausted by the double helping that was a rare treat. Her stomach grumbled, seeking to replace the energy she'd so wantonly consumed. Stepping out of the shower she stopped to admire herself in the mirror.

She had a figure many would be envious of, excepting, of course, the disfigurement of the horrid port wine birthmark that blemished both her breasts. It had blighted her young life, limiting her early sexual adventures to fumbling in the dark.

She could live with it now, but boyfriends were hard to find. Especially understanding ones, this was why the bath was so important.

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