Chapter 3

When she finished her shower, she turned off the faucet and turned her back to me in a calm, almost practiced motion. She gathered her hair with her hands, squeezing out the water dripping down her neck. From where I was standing, her white, round ass looked sculpted, no marks, firm and tight. She ran her palms down her arms, brushing off the excess water, then leaned forward to do the same to her legs. The second she bent over, I saw more than she’d shown me up to that point. It was just a glimpse, enough to make my heart race. I thought about looking away. I didn’t.

By then, I knew: she was putting on a show on purpose. Nobody gets that comfortable by accident. When she turned back to face me, she held out her hand, simple as that, asking for the towel.

“Hand me that towel?”

I passed it over awkwardly, trying not to touch her fingers.

“What’s wrong, girl? You nervous seeing me naked?”

“No… I’m just not used to it.”

She smiled, playing with the edge of the towel before running it over her chest.

“Then get used to it. We’re gonna see each other naked every day.”

“Is that your trick to snag a roommate? Get naked?” I teased, trying to hide my embarrassment.

She laughed out loud, genuine.

“Look, I hadn’t thought of that… but it’s a damn good idea.”

I grabbed my phone off the table, not even knowing what I was looking for. It was just an excuse, anything to help me breathe.

“I think I’m gonna head out, maybe catch an earlier bus. I’ll call my dad on the way.”

“Aw… you could stay.” Her voice came out lower, drawn out. “I like you, you know?”

As she spoke, she started drying off with the towel, in a slow, almost deliberate motion. She ran the cloth over her shoulders, then her breasts, the fabric dipping and rising, outlining everything. She moved down to her stomach, twisting her hips just a bit, like she knew she was being watched. The towel followed the curve of her thighs, sliding up between them. When it reached her crotch, she paused for a second, then, without a hint of shame, pulled the towel away and plucked a little stray hair stuck in her sparse pubic fuzz, laughing to herself about it.

“I hate when that happens,” she said casually, as she carefully pulled the hair free.

My face burned. My eyes wanted to look away, but they couldn’t. The towel hung loose from one hand, and there she was, so natural. Me, frozen in place, feeling the discomfort and the desire mixing inside me.

I wanted to ask so many things, open my mouth and see how far this would go. But I knew — if I let any words slip, it might all fall apart. And I wanted it. I swear I did. But the fear came with it, tangled up with this hot rush rising from my gut, a thick heat that left me breathless.

Between my legs, I felt the damp fabric and realized what my body already knew. I was scared of myself. It was too much desire for a first afternoon.

In a panic, I said goodbye quick, without even looking at her properly, making up some hurry. I left almost stumbling, the sound of her voice fading behind me.

At the bus station, the world felt out of focus. Everything spun, and people went about their business without noticing what I was feeling — or what almost happened. The image of her, naked, wet, the smile, the way she dried off… it all came back in flashes that made me squeeze my thighs as I walked. I could feel my panties getting wetter, sticking to me, my heart pounding in the same rhythm.

I bolted for the bathroom as soon as I got there. I paid the entry with shaky hands and ducked into the first stall I found. I locked the door hard, took a deep breath. My body was still on fire, like she’d followed me there, like her tongue was still touching me.

I pushed the stall door and stood there for a second, forehead against the wood. The hum of the place came in waves: distant voices, the flush of a toilet, hurried footsteps in the hall. I braced my hands on the latch and breathed slow, until my heart skipped less. I leaned down, peeked under: feet coming and going, two doors slamming, then silence. I waited. Nothing. Just the insistent drip of a poorly shut faucet.

I hiked up my dress like I was committing a crime. My fingers shook on the waistband. When I pulled down my panties, the cool air hit, and a thick strand stretched between the fabric and me, glistening before it broke. The smell hit with it, warm, unmistakable, slapping me back to her. I was soaked. Over the top. Ridiculous.

I propped one foot on the toilet rim, legs spread as far as my fear allowed. I ran the tips of my fingers over myself just to “see,” just to understand, and my body responded like it’d been waiting all day for that touch. A quick jolt shot up my belly, and my thighs clamped shut on their own, like I needed to hold myself back from myself.

I bit the back of my hand to stifle the sound that escaped. The first one, uncontrolled, a tiny “ah.” I went still, counting seconds. No one outside. No one.

I went back. Slid two fingers down, no rush now, exploring the path like recognizing a house in the dark. I touched what ached the most to want, and it was like the floor gave way under me. I arched back, hand on my knee, the other working slow, in short circles. I thought about how she’d made my desire for her body inevitable, with the towel, with the smile. It was her again. Her breasts under the fabric, the drop sliding down her navel, the casual way she plucked that hair and looked at me smiling.

The bathroom smelled like cheap cleaner and wet tile. My scent cut through it, insistent, dark. I breathed through my mouth, shallow, trying not to make noise. When I pressed a little harder, my lips parted on their own, and I had to grip hard to keep from grinding my teeth. My hand turned into a gag. I chewed on myself in silence.

Every now and then, I’d stop. Out of fear. Strategy. Because the wave built too fast, threatening to take me before I could decide. I wanted to decide. I wanted to drag out the torment just long enough for her memory to fit whole in here. Then I’d start again. Lighter. Shorter. Deeper. My skin vibrating under my fingertips, the rhythm starting in my hips before reaching my hand. I didn’t control the sway. My body did.

I thought about what I didn’t say. How she’d asked me to stay. Her voice deeper, drawn out, the “I like you” that unraveled me inside. I imagined what it would’ve been if I’d locked the bedroom door instead of running. Her hand, not mine. The towel’s rough drag, her knee pressing my thigh, the cold piercing on my tongue. The fantasy hit all at once, and my fingers slipped, plunged, ashamed and starving at the same time. A moan wanted out. I smothered my mouth with my hand and let only the air escape, hot, damp, like spitting a secret.

The rhythm picked up pace. I noticed I wasn’t thinking in words anymore. Textures. The weight of the water when she wrung her hair. The curve of her lower back. The space between her legs when she bent over. The sparse golden hairs that hid nothing. That had lit me up in a way that now was pure urgency. And urgency doesn’t mix with grace.

I leaned back against the wall, spread my thighs a little more, my dress riding up to my waist. My top hand kept the gag firm, the other drew faster circles, pausing to press at certain spots, like I’d practiced for this exact moment. There was a spot that responded like a button, and when I hit it, my whole body agreed. I’d go back there. Again. And again. I started running out of air. My arm ached. Didn’t matter.

I felt the first contraction signal the start of the end. A deep twinge inside, like someone pulling a thread tied to my core. I changed the rhythm, almost stopping. A cruel tease. I wanted to savor it. I thought about the taste of her wet skin. The sound of her laugh in the shower. The easy boldness when she said we’d see each other naked every day. The future packed into one sentence. I wanted that whole future crammed into this stall.

My body didn’t wait for the philosophy. I lost the beat for a second, and the wave crashed. I gripped harder with my hand and let go. The pleasure rose from my pelvis to my belly like a heat that wouldn’t fit. My thighs shook, my fingers, my teeth. I clamped my mouth so hard I tasted the metallic tang of skin. My eyes shut, not by choice. I tried to breathe and couldn’t. The first explosion prickled my neck, my scalp, the base of my spine. And I still had to hold back the sound. I threw my weight against the door for support, a thin piece of wood holding a whole universe, while my body did what it knew and I just gave in.

The second wave was worse. Better. Deeper. My hand slipped, and I found another way to press, a short drag that made everything blur. I froze for a moment, caught in my own current, and then the contractions hit. One, two, three. Long ones. I bit harder. My throat burned. My face wet, I don’t know if from sweat, tears, or the unlikely steam rising off me. The world shrank to tile, metal, and that fiery center ripping me apart in silence.

When it eased, I was still shaking. My pussy throbbed, and the bathroom’s silence felt colder. I loosened my hand from my mouth and breathed deep, pulling in my own scent. I opened my eyes slow. My body still pulsed in echoes, little ripples repeating like stubborn memories. I rested my forehead on my arm and laughed silently, relieved.

I wiped my fingers on the toilet paper carefully, trying to erase the evidence, but the signs lingered in me: sensitive skin, my heart’s slower beat, a weary peace. I pulled up my still-warm panties, feeling them stick, an intimate reminder of what I’d done and what I wanted to do again. I straightened my dress, washed my hands quick, splashed water on my face.

Later on the bus, I slept the whole ride, happy, calm, and relieved.