I don’t know how many it’s been. Apartment after apartment. They’re cheap and easy to rent online for one or two nights. We’ve been driving across the country for a couple of days now. It’s remarkable how quickly one place blends into another, until in the end you don’t really remember where you’ve been, you don’t care where you are.

I hop into the shower after a day of driving, ready to scrub the sweat and tiredness off my skin. I neglected to pack a shower gel, but people always forget things in their haste to continue their journey, and the apartment owners just leave half-empty shampoo and conditioner bottles there to be used by future guests. Some might find it gross. I don’t mind.

The men’s shower gel sitting there at the edge of the basin smells like you’d expect–something like a mix of after-shave and mild laundry detergent. The bottle is almost empty, but the remains are plenty for me to wash myself with tonight.

I let some of the viscous bluish liquid trickle onto my hand, lather it between my hands and start washing my shoulders, my arms, my armpits. Over my breasts and under them – that’s a spot that needs attention. Then come my feet, my thighs, my belly. Finally, I use the rest of the soapy foam to wash my groin.

The man who left this behind must have gone through the motions in a similar way. I wonder what he might have looked like. Maybe his body is hairy, so that the lather would have plastered his man-fur to his skin, or maybe not. He’s probably not young anymore. That’s an expensive brand of shower gel, so I’m guessing older, less concerned with everyday expenses. Maybe in his forties, with a hint of a beer belly, always resolving to start exercising next month, always too busy to actually go through with it. He’d have been on a business trip, probably renting the apartment just for himself.

I try to picture him here, that stranger squeezing this same bottle, the blue gel foaming between his hands. He’s washing his balls, his dick swinging left and right as he rubs underneath it. He’s pulling his foreskin back to clean the tip, and then he’s rinsing the lather off. Or maybe he’s gotten stiff, and he’s now rubbing one off, right here, where I’m standing.

I imagine the movement of his hand as my fingers wander to my own wet cleft. His palm is tightly wound around his cock, and he’s sliding his fist back and forth, slowly at first. Maybe the shower is still on, warming his back as he’s facing the glass door. His grip becomes firmer, and his motion quicker. Maybe he’s also fantasising about an unknown woman, there, in the same bare stall, rubbing herself, her nipples getting hard in the haze of her arousal.

I see in my mind’s eye his forearm muscles flexing as he throws his head back and masturbates vigorously. I brace myself on the cold glass with my free hand, bending my knees to open myself up as my fingers slide inside me. He bows his head forward now, his face scrunched in concentration. Shallow breaths are followed by light gasps as his lips part, and mine follow. Then his whole body tenses up, and the thick, white cum spurts between his curled fingers and mixes with the foam covering his member. I hold my fingers pressed against my clit as I see his dick pumping, the liquid trickling, again, again. I hold my breath until it’s over. I gasp in relief, and he does too.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and turns around to wash the lather off his now relaxed body. I take a couple of breaths and reach for my shampoo.