Marco sat on the soap, now that Dorris couldn’t see what he was doing, to collect his thoughts and brace himself for the next stage in these trials. The roar of the shower had mostly muted, dampened by the enormous, ripe buttocks that mashed against the shower wall and surrounded his little ceramic alcove. It seemed cooler in the soap dish now, with the steamy heat of the shower cut off, and the air was heavy with a powdery floral scent, irritating his nostrils. It was like an inferior American manufacturer tried to imitate the classic scent of French salle de bain soap, cutting corners with synthetic scents and compounds, until the end result was a waxen lump guaranteed to cause migraines in 15% of the population. He would have felt bad that his pathetic coworker had such simple tastes (or such meager income) that she couldn’t do better than buy this shit—heaven forfend that she actually liked it—but he really wasn’t in any place to judge.
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