A hole in the shower stall
Summer, sea, two weeks of freedom. After going to the beach we all are covered with sand and salt from sea water. The line to the showers is very long, from the dining area to our camping. I’m standing and waiting, I can't wait to wash off this squeaky sea water to feel myself fresh and clean.
Girls are jostling and joking, mocking each other in the line to the showers. The last shower stall is adjacent to the men toilet. Every girl of our group is aware of the secret of this stall: as you come in, immediately hang up the towel on the last hook, so that it would cover the hole on the wall at stomach level, because the boys used to peek in this hole from their side.
Already a week I have been managing to avoid this stall. But here I am standing in the line, fumbling the bag with a soap, a towel and fresh panties, then it comes my turn and only this dangerous stall is free.
I come in, lock the door from inside. The main thing is not to look at the hole. Why am I so excited? In the stall there are only two hooks, big and small: I’m hanging the towel on the big one closing the hole. Hanging the bag over. Unzipping the skirt and removing. Oh, the other hook is too small, the skirt will fall down on the dirty wet floor for sure and there’s no place to hang it.
Hesitating just for a moment: the towel goes on the small hook, and the most important hook gets the skirt. It was too short, and the dangerous hole in the wall is looking right at me. Am I doing this? And why is my heart beating so fast? And why suddenly is so familiar sensation spreading over my thighs with recently known pleasant warmth?..
On top of the skirt I hang my swimsuit. That’s all I’m naked. Perhaps, someone on the other side of the wall is already looking at me. For the first time. In my life. Fine tremor in my fingers is felt as when I was a child, playing hide and seek with my older cousin, sitting under a table filled with joyful emotions. I've held my breath that was stubbornly rushing out. At that I wanted to stay unnoticed and at the same time anticipating the joy I would have.
And now I was simultaneously afraid that I could be seen and at the same time I wanted someone admiring me through the stall hole. I turn on the water. Lather is slowly flowing over me. I feel it flowing over my back and filling the hollow between my buttocks. How nice it is to touch my chest and the stomach. But not between the legs, not there. I don't want anyone to see it. The noise of falling water. Nice and warm touching of the jets. And I can't stop. I’m stroking and caressing myself. Right hand is running over down to my belly. Lathered smooth fingers are fumbling in there... as if someone twisted the handles of sensitivity to the maximum.
I'm barely holding back a groan, but remain standing on my feet. The wave that has just passed through my body from toes to head dissolves slowly in me. I'm afraid to touch myself again, but irresistible force is pulling me to do it again and again. Earlier I could cope with this feeling. But not now, as I’m standing here under the water jets and behind this wall there can be someone watching me – there is the least chance that someone is in there, but this is enough.
In the end, the fear that hurtful stories about me can be spread all around helped me to control myself. While getting dressed, I moved the towel back, and, burning with shame, I stepped out of the shower stall.
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