You get up and grab her clothes

You rise abruptly off of her side of the bed, placing one foot on the soft fabric of a pink skirt that tops an unruly mound of clothes, and the other against the tough leather of her pumps. “Alright,” you say, beckoning to the door, “go ahead.”

Ally’s eyes widen at the suddenness of your movement, and her brow furrows a millimetre or so as she tries to work out the catch. She gets up, more cautiously than you, so that she’s sitting facing you, her neck level with and no more than a foot back from your still-upstanding member. “Can you pass me my clothes, please?”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

Her furrow, and the tension in the room, rise. “What the fuck?” Her question is too blunt, too raw, to be a declaration of war so early in this little game you’ve decided to play, but tinged with enough menace to **** you to give a good reason for playing it. “Pass me my clothes so I can put them on and go to the toilet.”

“Like I say, that doesn’t sound like much fun. It’s just too easy a way out of the predicament you find yourself in.”

“Have I any other ways out?”

“Well, you could try harder to persuade me to give you your clothes.” Her eyes turn steelier, bluer, and though you know she is considering whether to acquiesce to this sexual ****, you cannot yet discern a decision. “You could try and take them off me.” They drop to your feet, enquiring how likely you are to be able to deny such an attempt by ****. “You could gamble on making it to the loos without bumping into anyone. It’s only, what, twenty seconds, if you run? And, it’s not like the world ends if someone briefly glimpses a naked student making a shame run to the toiler.” Greener again, Ally’s eyes suggest this is an unattractive option. “Or, I guess, if you really wanted to get back at me, you could squat down and go in the corner.” Her disgust is palpable, for the first time in your pitch: doing her business on your floor is not, as you suspected, something she is close to countenancing. But it disappears again behind a mulling visage; dares, pranks, what-ifs and hard choices are part of your rapport, and you can tell now this is a game she intends to play, and win.

“There’s a fifth option, you know. One I think I like better than any of yours.”

“And what’s that?”

She rolls, now with the same urgency you deployed moments ago, to your side of the bed, and exits. “I can wear your clothes.” Thinking this a masterstroke, she hurriedly attempts to don your jeans, but the fit is predictably disastrous, and they slide right back down her legs again; meanwhile, you dive across the bed to sweep your boxers and shirt from the floor, denying her two ultimately more feasible, if imperfect, modesty preservers. She lunges out at you, but you dodge, bundling your spoils with her yesterday attire and moving to stand guard over your wardrobe, lest she attempt there to find a baggy top she could employ as a nightshirt long enough to make her way to the facilities without exposure.

“Nice try. But don’t think you can.”

“Fuck,” she laments. A hand of hers then shoots to her crotch; she bends and pulls her thighs inwards. “Fuck,” again, only this one is less regret at best laid plans, and more fear of a greater disaster. “OK, nicely done and all,” spoken now with a rapidity and instability belying rising desperation, “but I’m pretty bloody close to wetting myself, so…”

“Wetting yourself?” you interrupt. “You’re not wearing anything. Does that count as wetting yourself?”

“OK, if you prefer: I’m pretty bloody close to pissing on your floor. If you want to make me choose between that and showing my vagina to whichever weirdo passes me on your floor, then fine, great boyfriend-ing, but I think maybe game’s over and you could just give me something to put on so I can go sort myself out?” Her talk is fighting, but she cuts a **** figure, significantly shorter and slighter than you, bare from head to toe with every private part exposed, her body shivering with the cold of the morning and her legs tense with the effort of shielding your floor from the contents of her (noticeably bulging) bladder.