Of all the things Oliver has wanted-no, needed-from his return to civilization, a hot shower was the most important. Steam rises up into the shower immediately, and he doesn't even worry if it's too hot or not, sliding the door behind him and feeling his body surge with relief. Too many years on the island, bathing in cold lakes, and even on his warmest nights never feeling the soothing embrace of hot water. His lungs fill with the steam and his legs nearly buckle from the sheer thrill of it. He'd hoped for one sooner, but ended up with only a cold bath in the hospital. It was in the bathroom of his home he finally got his chance, which was, quite frankly, sort of perfect for him.
Whenever he emerged from the lake, he always felt as though there was something that didn't come off, as if a layer of dirt remained caked onto him. He never could find any, but that feeling of cleanliness, of renewed purity, never hit him when he walked out of the lake. It's there immediately, as if the water burns away something that cold can't. He hasn't even soaped up a cloth yet, and he already feels better.
And he doesn't even have a cloth. Dangling off the tap is a loofah, and that realization alone is enough to make him hurriedly rub the wet soap bar against it. The suds build up quickly, even his calloused, weathered hand finding new life as he holds the lacy scrubber. A shower has never seemed as important to him as it does in that instant.
Once it's so thoroughly sudsed up that it's dripping soap bubbles onto the tile floor, he turns away from the water. The heat strikes his back, and he groans as it melts away years of built up stress better than any massage could. Aches and longing just wash away, joining dirt on the floor and circling the drain, soon to be forgotten. He's home now. The loofah presses into his abs and begins scrubbing, and the sensation has the strangest effect on him. His cock jerks, growing slightly stiffer, and that gives him pause. It feels good, yes, but it's only a loofah. His own loofah. There's no socialite behind him, breasts pressed into his back, giggling drunkenly into his ear as she scrubs him clean with particular attention paid to his groin. He wishes there was.
Another scrub, just to confirm, and his cock jumps again. This time he cares less, groaning as the soft loofah rubs along his chest. Back down it slides, curiously reaching for his groin, and he finds he's not even imagining the socialite there this time. Just himself, enjoying the heat. He's completely hard now, from two seconds of cleaning himself. The island did a number on him—he knows—but this is not what he expected. He continues anyway, cleaning his crotch as his knees go weak. Soon enough he's up against the blue tile wall, one hand holding the loofah and scrubbing his thighs, as the other finds his soapy cock.
Oliver's finally in a moment without stress for the first time in five years, feeling clean, warm... And his body is finally making demands. He obliges, unable to resist, and not entirely sure he wants to. The second he begins to pump, another surge of pleasure washes over him, and he pulls the loofah down his thigh. It feels incredible. The way the loofah tickles his skin, all of those lacy ridges rubbing along the weathered flesh and rendering it squeaky clean, makes him rock his hips into his hand eagerly. There's a lot to process, but he chooses to not let any of it get to him, his senses all reeling as the shower fills with more and more steam, making everything blurrier.
Dragging it back up, he focused on just rubbing his entire body, spreading the infinite suds across his entire form as he masturbates. It's like no handjob he's ever given himself before. It feels electric, makes him groan and bite his lip as his forehead leans into the wall. His hips rock forward into his hand, meeting halfway in the way it does when someone else is touching him. But it's only him. Only him, and yet it feels incredible. His knees buckle, which is useful because it allows him to get the backs of his calves and his ankles. The aches and stresses of years in seclusion, without any certainty he'd ever return, are replaced with tingling, burning cleanliness. He forgets about how his life has changed, how his friends and family aren't quite the same as he left them. There is only him, the hot stream down his back, and the soap streaking across his muscular form.
Even once every inch of his body is covered in soap, he doesn't stop. He can't stop. The comfort is the thrill, and he hasn't found release yet. His hand pumps furiously, cock tingling and aching as it slides along easily, lubricated by soap and water. His hips aren't just bucking straight to meet it anymore, he's rocking, putting some motion into it like he would if he were actually fucking a woman instead of his hand. He knows that every night can't be like this, that circumstances have made only this shower perfect, but he's groaning and gasping and he just doesn't fucking care. He rubs the loofah along his abs and his thighs, moaning and biting his lower lip, louder even than the pouring water of the shower.
Wrapped in heat, cloaked in steam, and sitting just below absolute nirvana, Oliver gives one last thrust forward and shudders. His legs weaken out and he nearly falls to his knees as his cock jerks and throbs, his cum shooting out onto the tile wall. He moans, leaning limp against it, still pumping as he empties himself into the shower. It'll all end up down the drain, just like his stresses, but he doesn't want to face it. He sucks in hot breaths of steam as he pants, and once his energy returns to him, his hand is still griping his completely rigid cock.
His other goes for the shampoo.