This has been a long time fantasy of mine that I've yet to have an opportunity to fulfill. I've always wanted to have a crying/conforting scene happen in the shower. I recall many years ago how a family friend (a woman) made a remark to my mother that the best place to cry was in the shower.

On another occasion, I found a YouTube video (sadly since disappeared) of a young woman who had recorded and then uploaded herself sobbing for several minutes in the shower. I can only assume it was meant as some sort of performance art piece, in no small part because it was shot in black and white. She was wearing a bra and bikini bottom, she seemed to be overacting, and it didn't hit all my cues for major sobbing arousal (facial expression wasn't always clear, crying sounded too "pretty," her belly didn't shake powerfully enough) but it was still a delight to watch until it vanished.

I've enjoyed showering with women on many occasions, and I love the intimacy of it. Each time, however, I found myself wishing she needed to cry and me being able to comfort her. I could imagine the scenario very clearly.

It's been a long, hot, hard day. The summer sun has left us sweaty and tired and in need of cleansing. I begin the water pouring into our large, luxurious stone tiled shower. The water is of a mild, pleasant temperature to cool me after a day in the steamy, pale-orange summer haze. I take her hand and invite her to come with me. We step onto the warm, wet stones.

I pull her close and kiss her forehead. She smiles warmly, and turns her head to the side, leaning her cheek against my right shoulder as I tenderly run my fingers through her dripping hair. In the moment, I am perfectly at ease and content. But something is troubling her...what could it be? It could be anything, any one of the the myriad aches and vicissitudes of the world, laying a flinty stone blade to her heart to strike the crackling sparks of hurt which may kindle the blaze of her emotions.

She feels safe with me. She knows she's safe with me. There is nothing in the moment but ourselves and our little house of rain, a column of warm, embracing water, a glittering bead curtain falling over us, beyond whose compass the world falls away into the distance corners of the universe. But still the blade nicks her heart. Something cold and hard and actual as frost freezes her throat.

I look down and notice a change on her face. It's hard to see because her head is still leaning on my shoulder, but her warm, slight grin has sunken into a slight pout of worry, and sinks farther and farther as I watch. I look down at her and she turns her face more fully toward me. Her eyes glisten with a different wetness, the thick slow shine of tears contrasting  with the glimmering flood that pours and plays over us. She knows that I see it, and I know that she knows that I see it.

I pull her closer to me, pressing every inch of us together that I possibly can. As I watch, her upturned face tightens. Her lips peel back into an involuntary sneer of anguish as her face falls away, and she buried her head over my left shoulder, close against my neck.

One, then two choked, staccato sobs force there way between clenched teeth. Each one racks her shoulders and ribs, shaking both of us slightly, and I feel her wet, smooth, silky soft belly pull back towards her spine and then hitch back outward as it squeezes her sobs out from deep inside. Then, a succession of faster, near silent sobs follow as the vessel containing her heart's anguish tips and then falls, spilling like an upset cauldron. The sobs cease, and her bosom flutters as she struggles to gain control of her breath. Her throat clenches and her glottis tightens, and then with a sharp, loud high-pitched squeak, she desperately hiccups for breath, as her belly muscles forcefully hitch outward against me with her breath.

Her sobs come again, smoother and more rhythmic, breathy but deep, rolling like waves in my ear with the beautiful feeling of her belly massaging mine with the power of her crying. She gasps again, three times because she was so spent of air, making the sexiest sound that a woman can make, a triplet of glottal, melodic squeaks that heave both our bodies.

I turn to look at her face insofar as I can. Her pained sneer has faded into pursed, quivering lips, and shut eyes with two long trails of hot, slow water issuing forth amidst the hasty drops falling on us. We are warm and wet together. I sense internally but cannot feel the borders of her tears amidst the greater torrent. They blend together, and we might both be bathed in the warm, sweet liquor of her tears. I notice how my breathing has taken a shade of similarity to hers. The force of her heaving belly against mine influences my breathing, and I am now inhaling and exhaling with the slightest echo of her sobs and gasps as her breathing muscles vibrate mine. Her crying is like a song in which I have involuntarily begun to hum a harmony, forming chords with whispered undertones and overtones. I hold her tighter than ever, grateful for the symphony that we make together.

I do not know how long I will hold her for. It must continue until she has cried herself out and then some. A woman's face never glows so warmly as after having cried a necessary cry and been brought back to happiness by a pair if strong, safe arms. I kiss her under our private summer storm, and we are both joyous and thankful.

Well, I've fantasized about enough for one night...