Keep what she has on.

“No, that’s OK, I’ll do it myself,” Anna insisted, clutching her damp blouse to her chest, skin prickling beneath the thin fabric. “Well, your skirt’s already out here, so come do the rest,” one of the older girls teased, waving the sodden garment from across the tiles.

Anna unlocked the stall, stepping hesitantly into the open, arm folded over her breasts, her hand pressing against the hem of her underwear as she moved toward the hand dryer. Her white knee socks, soggy and sticking to her calves, made each step squeak inside her black Mary Janes.

She pulled off her blouse, shivering as the cool air rushed over her bare skin, nipples stiffening as she tried to hide her chest behind a crumpled ball of wet cotton. She started the dryer, **** for any sense of control.

She never saw it coming. Hands grabbed her from behind, a chorus of laughter exploding in her ears. “Hey, stop! Wait, don’t—!” Anna’s voice was muffled by a palm clamped over her mouth. She twisted, but her arms were wrenched behind her, wrists pinned. A sharp tug—her bra snapped up over her breasts, scraping painfully across her nipples before being ripped away. She gasped, chest bared, and a flood of cold air struck her exposed skin.

Hands roamed over her body—fingers tickling, slapping, groping her breasts, belly, and smooth, hairless crotch. She felt a hand slip between her thighs, knuckles brushing the sensitive, naked folds of her pussy. Anna writhed, humiliated, as her body was twisted and spun, legs losing purchase on the slick floor.

With a yelp, she slipped and crashed onto her back, legs splaying out, arms flailing helplessly as the girls’ phones came out—multiple camera flashes going off in rapid succession. The girls cackled as they circled her, their screens pointed at her fully bared body, capturing everything: her flushed breasts, stiff pink nipples, the gleaming slit of her hairless mound, her shoes and socks the only scraps of clothing left.

Anna trying to cover her breasts and smooth pussy with trembling hands, but every frantic motion was caught in frame—her shame immortalized by their laughter and the clicks of phone cameras. “Please, stop! Don’t take pictures!” she begged, voice ragged with panic.

But the clicks only came faster. A hand slap landed on her ass. Someone shouted for her to “smile for the camera!” Anna turned her face away in shame.

And then, just as abruptly, it ended. The girls snatched up her all clothes her blouse, her skirt, and her bra, their laughter echoing down the hallway as they bolted from the bathroom—her image and her dignity stolen in a flurry of phone screens and mocking giggles.

For a moment Anna just lay there, splayed naked on the wet tile, her exposed slit and small breasts on full display to the empty room, the echo of girl's laughter still searing in her mind.

She stared down at her wet naked body—shiny, hairless skin, her bare lips and chest burning with shame, nothing left to hide behind.

Anna wavered, head spinning. “Guys! I need my clothes back, please!” she called, voice hoarse and breaking, but the only answer was the sound of her own breathing and the trickle of water.

Someone entered, slow and deliberate—a older woman’s voice muttering in a language Anna couldn’t follow. The lady janitor.

She hurried into another stall, hugging herself, trying to disappear into the cracked paint and cold tile. The lock was broken; she crouched in the corner, shivering, heart hammering, as the bathroom door creaked open Anna tried to hold the door, but the woman shoved it open easily with a single hard push. Anna tumbled back, Her bare ass landing with a splash next to the toilet, legs spread wide in her shock, every inch of her exposed for the old janitor woman to see.

Anna scrambled to cover herself, arms across her chest, hands over her pussy, but it was impossible to hide everything. The janitor’s scowl deepened. She barked a string of words, tossing out celebrity names with a sneer—Brittany Spears, Madonna, Katy Perry—as if Anna was nothing but another foolish exhibitionist.

Anna babbled an explanation, cheeks burning, but the woman seemed not to care. She wheeled in a mop and bucket and shoved the mop into Anna’s arms. “But I have no clothes! I’m naked—please, can you get me something to wear?” Anna pleaded, but the woman only pointed to the floor.

Mortified, Anna began to mop, breasts bouncing, shaved sex glistening under the fluorescent lights, socks soggy and drooping on her calves. The janitor left, came back, and dropped something orange and flimsy at Anna’s feet—a mesh safety vest, see-through and with Velcro that barely held together.

Anna slipped it on. The mesh did nothing to hide her nipples, or the pale skin and smooth lips of her sex. She was still naked, and she knew it. The janitor gave her another silent command to keep mopping, and Anna obeyed, her humiliation complete—mopping the bathroom, photographed, exposed, dressed in nothing but socks, shoes, and a useless, transparent vest.