I ask for help

I turned off the tap with trembling hands. The sudden silence inside the stall made the commotion outside sound dangerously close.

"I'm sorry!" I shouted, pressing my forehead against the plastic door with my heart racing. "I'm really, really sorry... I forgot my towel in my locker. Would anyone be kind enough to lend me one?"

A murmur of whispers and mocking giggles swept through the room. A second later, a hand appeared over the top edge of the stall and dropped a piece of dark blue fabric.

"It's my hair towel, so don't expect any miracles, rookie," the girl stated dismissively.

I grabbed the fabric with the desperation of a drowning person, but as I unfolded it, my heart sank to my stomach. It was a ridiculously narrow rectangle. With frantic movements, I tried to wrap it around my chest, but my breasts—too full and heavy for my frame—inevitably spilled out from the sides. No matter how I adjusted the material: if I managed to cover my nipples, the fabric sat so high that my pubic hair and pelvis were left exposed; if I pulled it down to hide my private parts, my chest was left almost entirely bare.

I had no choice. I covered myself as best I could, pressing the towel against my bust with one crossed arm to keep the weight of my breasts from letting it slip, while using my other hand to try and pull the ends together over my hip. Soaking wet, with my purple hair dripping onto my shoulders and my skin burning with pure shame, I pushed the door open and stepped out.

The locker room was packed. At least ten girls were changing in front of the lockers, but as soon as they saw me appear with such a pathetic rag, the volume of their conversations dropped instantly.

The fluorescent ceiling light was unforgiving. It illuminated every drop of water on my skin and highlighted the volume of my chest, which the small towel could barely contain, creating a cleavage as deep as it was obscene that immediately drew every gaze.

"Damn... no wonder she was taking so long to come out," a girl commented, leaning against the lockers while sizing me up from head to toe. "With a pair like that, that thing looks like a tissue. Look at her, one's gonna pop out at any second."

I avoided looking up at all costs. I quickened my pace, feeling the damp fabric cling to my curves, accentuating them with precision instead of hiding them. My bare feet left a trail of wet footprints on the floor, a rhythmic echo that marked the countdown of my panic. I was crossing the room practically naked, with my own body betraying me and demanding an attention that made me want to disappear into thin air.

It was a precarious and suffocating balancing act. If I squeezed the towel at the top to contain my overflowing bust, the bottom hem rose dangerously above my stomach; if I tried to pull it down, the fabric stretched so tight that my nipples—still erect and sensitive from the cold shower and the recent sex—threatened to poke out with every step. The heavy, steam-filled air of the locker room felt like sandpaper against my skin.