I Got Caught with My Hand Between My Legs

Chapter 26

A noise in the stall next to mine.

My heart pounded hard right away, a rush of adrenaline putting me on high alert. I froze like prey about to be spotted by the predator. The fear of getting caught there hit me heavy, icy cold. Imagine if they went around saying they saw me rubbing one out in the bathroom? My life at school would be over. I'd have to switch schools, and worse: if they called my mom? She'd look at me with that face of disappointment mixed with disgust, pray for me in church, call me every name she already threw at me during our phone fights. My whole body locked up, my hand still stopped between my legs, fingers slick and stuck to my panties.

But then something weird caught my eye. I looked up—and there was a fucking girl staring at me over the bathroom partitions. Oh my God. The bitch was watching me touch myself. Her face poked over the divider, eyes wide, mouth half-open, like she'd stumbled on something she wasn't expecting. My brain short-circuited. I wanted to curse her out, yell, tell her to get lost. But what came out was a low tone, almost polite, like I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary:

"Hey, excuse me?"

The girl pulled her face back from the divider without saying a word. She vanished. The silence returned, heavy, just the distant sound of the faucet and the younger girls chatting at the mirror.

Right then I started panicking, my heart racing, thinking about how I'd get out of this mess. If she said anything, I'd tell her I was changing a pad or wiping a stain on my pants, and make her look like the crazy one for making shit up. But I could never use that bathroom for this again. Never. I was so screwed when I opened that door.

I stalled for a bit, like I was finishing up—adjusting my panties, pulling up my jeans slow, washing my hands in the tiny sink in the stall. I took a deep breath, smoothed my hoodie, fixed my ponytail better. I opened the door to face the world.

And she was there. Lingering, pretending to wash her hands at the sink outside, staring at the floor, her face red. The younger girls had already left—the bathroom was empty, just the two of us. I glared at her like she was to blame for everything, like I was the victim. But before I could say a word, she spoke first, voice low, almost whispering:

"Sorry… I didn't mean to see anything. And I won't tell anyone."

I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, embarrassed, avoiding her eyes, but the girl kept staring at me. I wanted the guts to yell, fight, tell her to beat it, but I was too chicken for that. I just stood there, scrubbing my hands under the cold water, feeling my face burn with shame.

"You're not gonna say anything?" she repeated, eyeing the girls coming in and out of the bathroom, voice low, almost whispering.

"Say what, girl? About you spying on the stalls? That's creepy, huh?" The best I could manage was sarcasm, but my voice came out weak, trembling a little.

She leaned against the sink next to mine, laughed low and said:

"Babe, I could hear the sound of you rubbing one out and, from the looks of it, I could even make out the rhythm. And worse: you could hear it from the hallway."

Oh my God, what a shame. Right then I thought about the girls who'd been there. Did they hear it too? Did everyone know? My stomach went cold. But when she said that, she cracked me up with the joke, and I couldn't hold back—I laughed. Laughed from nerves, from relief, from shame all mixed up. And in that laugh, I let my guard down.

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh," she confirmed, looking at me in the mirror, a crooked little smile at the corner of her mouth.

I looked at her properly for the first time. She was a lot like me: laid-back vibe, fair skin, brown hair tied up any which way. But she at least put on some black eyeliner, took better care of her hair. Her tits were bigger, she had more curves, more hips. She looked like me, but… more confident. More alive.

"Relax, I come to this bathroom too," she said, still laughing. "I'll confess I'm hooked on this shit." She laughed again, thought of something she decided not to say, and shook her head. "I need to get help ASAP."

I looked at her and thought: this was weird. First she'd been spying on me. Anyone who's been in a public bathroom knows: when someone makes a weird noise in a stall—whatever it is—you just bang on the door, yell some joke, and run off. If you're climbing up on the divider to see what they're doing, it's to get a good look and tease even more. But she'd just watched me in silence. Didn't yell, didn't laugh loud, didn't call anyone. And now she was confessing, without me even asking, that she was addicted to rubbing one out?

She had me curious. Was she broken like me? Did she feel the same thing—that emptiness that only an orgasm filled for a few seconds, the guilt that followed, the desire that never stopped? I didn't know what to say. I just stood there looking at her in the mirror, hands still wet, heart pounding hard, but not from fear anymore. From something else. From possibility.

"You… come here every day?" I asked, voice low, almost without meaning to.

She shrugged, still looking in the mirror, like she was deciding how much to share.

"Almost every day. It's quieter here. Nobody from our floor comes. And…" She paused, laughed lightly. "You can do it without anyone bothering you. At least until today."

I swallowed hard. The bathroom was empty now, just us two. The drip of the faucet, the distant echo of someone in the hall. The bell signaling the next class.

I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. Even now, standing right in front of me, I'd found someone with something in common, but I sucked at making friends and the best I could come up with was:

"What's your name?"