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Sister Kathryn sees Father Thomas for his spiritual guidance.

Picking it up, I was ready to tell whoever it was on the line to go fuck him/her self when I heard these words.

"You didn't follow instructions." Click. Dial tone.

My spine was no longer tingling with desire. Fear replaced the need. Fear and anger mixed. I was ready to fling the phone across the room.

As I stood there, phone in hand, however, the gel began to work. Not with the explosiveness of that morning in the airplane lavatory, but it was definitely beginning to work. It was a subtle glow that began at various parts of my body, erogenous zones and zones that were now erogenous despite their original purpose.

Despite my fear, despite my irritation at the phone interruption, my irritation with all my arrangements for the evening, my body was again beginning to respond. My skin flushed, my breathing became deeper and more insistent, a flush was extending from my cheeks down my neck onto my chest.

My pussy was coming to life. Slowly, the warmth began to grow, the sensations of need to be filled, of need for touch, were there at the edge of my consciousness.

But the sexual need was warring with my growing anger at ... at whoever, whatever had given me that gel. No, not at having given me the gel but for having put those stupid restrictions on it and for the intrusion into my personal life, my privacy, that the note that accompanied the gel, and the phone call, too, had made.

I wasn't going to be taken by the gel, no matter the pleasure it promised. I strode into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and stepped in. I directed the handheld shower head at my face, my breasts, my pussy, sputtering and cursing the woman in the stall who handed me the gel, whoever it was that had developed it.

The cold water and the rage held the desire at bay for some time. Twice, I turned off the water, thinking I had won, but the subtle warmths, the insistence of desire forced me to turn the water on again, to turn the shower head on those areas where the need grew. Face, breasts, pussy, ass. It almost became a race to reach another hotspot, a race I soon lost as hotspots became simultaneous, then continual.

I deliberately set the shower head to a fine mist, intending not to inflame my desire any by force of water. Yet, as I stood there, desire and rage warring within me, I noticed that it was set at gentle pulse. Whether I had done so or not, I don't know.

My legs began to shake with weakness and desire. I sat on the bottom of the tub and began to cry with frustration. Frustration at my inability to control the situation, to control my desires, even to control the flow of the shower head as it bit more insistently into my tissues. Sexual frustration, as well, as the need for release began to override all other sensations.

Again, whether it was my doing or not, the pulse of the handheld shower head grew less gentle and the water grew hot to the point where it, too, created or inflamed already existing heat where it struck. My left hand found its way to my breasts and fulfilled their desire, their demand, for play. My right hand directed the shower head, now totally at the area of my pussy. My legs spread as far as they would go, willing the water, the beat of the water as high up inside me as it could go at the same time that my clitoral area called out for its share of the fun.

I could get the shower head no closer than a foot and a half from my pussy, however. Its cord reached only so far, and again frustration brought me to tears, tears of anger and sexual frustration alike.

I lay down, put my feet up on the edges of the tub and pushed my body closer to the showerhead, ever closer, until my back arched like a gymnast's and my pussy was pointed at the sky.

I'd always been able to get off, repeatedly, to the ministrations of a stream of water, but not today.

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