"He may as well have lost it," she mumbled, leaning forward in the shower stall. Water poured over the back of her head, but her eyes were closed and she was breathing in husky gulps. Her lips continued to nuzzle the area of tit she could reach, and her finger had started working in her cunt again. Joanne's hips and belly jerked each time she plunged home, and she plunged home repeatedly, stabbing the finger up into the musky depths of her snatch. She could smell the heated arousal of her body, and she felt stinging bitter tears forming behind her tightly-shut eyelids, tears of shame that she had to be doing this for herself, that she'd been finding her own consolation this way for so long, so many weeks. Her finger in her pie, her fingers on her nips, squeezing, tweaking, she brought her body to the satisfaction her husband was no longer interested in giving her.

Masturbation. It was lovely when you were young and inexperienced, preparing yourself for the day when you would take your place in society's sexual framework as an essential member. But it was ugly, so Goddamned ugly, when you were a married woman of thirty-one and masturbating fingers were the only lovers you had to your name!

"Love me," she moaned, and some of the warm water dribbled into her mouth. She blew bubbles on her lips and she kept on diddling herself, rocking about, twisting this way and that as it got better and better. Joanne sank to her knees, legs parted, her hand still ramming its way up and into her snatch, through the sucking network of pussy muscles and mucous-coated tissue. She reached up to shut off the water – here, on her knees, there was too much of it, she'd drown in her ecstasy – the water stopped and she leaned her fingers against the shower wall for a moment, bracing herself as she kept on plunging fingers up her hot aching twat.

The wall was wet, though, and her hand slipped and slid, and she felt her fingers brush something long and slender and plastic.