I hide in the showers

The cold of the locker room began to seep into my bones, but the panic freezing my blood was far worse. I was trembling, completely defenseless, as the shower water dripped down my thighs, forming a puddle on the floor that reflected my own vulnerability.

I looked down at my right fist. The only thing I had left in the world was that ridiculous pink thong, soaked and heavy. I felt a wave of self-loathing and despair, but I had no other choice. With fingers numbed by the cold, I slipped my toes through the thin elastic straps and pulled it up. The wet fabric clung cold and unpleasantly to my private parts, and the damp string dug between my buttocks with a friction that made me gasp. It covered absolutely nothing, but the psychology of modesty is a strange thing: I needed to feel something, no matter how minimal, pressed against my body.

Suddenly, the heavy hinges of the main door groaned.

Someone was coming in.

My heart leaped so violently I almost lost my balance. Seized by panic and knowing I wouldn't make it across the locker room in time, I backed blindly toward the far end of the showers. I pressed myself against the tiled wall of the very last cubicle, trying to camouflage myself in the shadows and the steam that still drifted through the air. I crossed my arms over my bare breasts, squeezing them tightly, trying to make myself as small as possible. My rigid nipples flattened against my forearms, sending a direct jolt of electricity straight to my stomach.

I held my breath, feeling the freezing tiles against my bare back, while my self-sabotaging mind kept reminding me that the "Open it" sign on my crotch would give me away at first glance. The water still dripping from my violet hair slid down my neck, brushing past my chest and making me shudder.