The question, the outraged, moral, indignant question of a woman who felt violated, was there.
He stood her in the water. Her dress, the dark fabric, soaked. The water, cool and clear, rose to her thighs. Her thick legs, the pale flesh, were visible through the wet cloth. Her panty, the cotton, was soaked.
"You need cleaning," he said. His voice was calm. The justification, the hygienic justification, was there.
He splashed. His hand, cupping water, threw it. Against her pussy. The water, cool, hit her soaked panty. The fabric, already wet, pressed against her lips. The impact, the splash, the cold water on her warm, recently-urinated pussy, made her gasp.
"Ah!" she cried. Her body, the thick frame, jolted.
He splashed again. And again. The water, against her pussy, against her thighs, against her ass. The cleaning, the methodical, deliberate, ceremonial cleaning, was there. But the method, the hand-splashing, the touching, was not purely hygienic.
