give the girl her cloths to dry

“No!” Anna blurted, voice high and shaky, “That’s ok—I’ll do it myself!”

But the older girl only smirked. “Come on, it’s the least we can do since we scared you coming in.”

Anna hesitated, blushing hard, water dripping from her sleeves. “O-okay, I guess…” She peeled off her soaked blouse, shivering as the fabric clung to her skin. Her bra—thin, cheap, and damp—offered little modesty. Anna reached over the stall door, blindly offering her crumpled blouse to the waiting hand outside.

A pause. Then, “Come on, your bra too. It’s soaked—I know you want it dry.”

Anna’s stomach flipped. She tried to protest, but her words caught. With a trembling sigh, Anna reached behind her, unclipped her bra, and slipped the straps down her arms. The cups stuck for a moment to her skin before peeling away, baring her chest completely. She reluctantly handed the bra up over the door as well.

For the first time, Anna felt the full weight of her exposure: standing in a cold puddle, nothing left on her body but her knee-high white socks—already soggy around the toes—and her shiny black Mary Jane shoes. From the neck down, everything was visible: her breasts bare and goosepimpled, her nipples flushed and stiff from the cold, the pale slope of her belly and the clean, delicate triangle of her pubic mound. Cool air crept up her inner thighs, swirling between her legs. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, one hand shielding her crotch, utterly defenseless in the echoing stall.

The hand dryer roared to life. Anna let herself breathe again—soon she’d have something dry to cover up with. Her panties, she remembered with a surge of humiliation, were still lost somewhere in the pipes, irretrievable.

The dryer cut off. Silence filled the bathroom, thick and sudden. No giggles, no footsteps, not even the usual hum of conversation. Anna’s heart stuttered. She pressed her body against the wall, trying to peer out the gap beside the stall door.

No one in sight. The dryer was still, but the girls—and her clothes—were gone.

Anna’s mouth went dry. “Hello? Guys?” she called, voice trembling. “I need my clothes back. Please?”

No answer. She eased the stall door open, arms crossed tightly over her bare breasts, and peered out into the empty restroom. The stalls were open. Her clothes were nowhere.

“Great,” she whispered, voice thick, “now I have nothing at all.” She stepped carefully into the water, her shoes squelching, searching for any sign of her lost clothes.

Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked. Anna jerked back in panic, darting into a different stall. The lock on this one was broken—she gripped the door, holding it shut, heart pounding in her ears.

Shuffling footsteps, muttered speech. An old woman’s voice, grumbling in a language Anna didn’t recognize—maybe Chinese, maybe something else. Anna squeezed tighter against the stall, breath hitching.

The woman tugged on the door. Anna tried to resist, but the old woman shoved hard and **** it open. Anna stumbled back, slipped, and landed hard on her bare butt, the icy water seeping up between her legs. Her knees fell apart, legs spread wide in the shallow puddle, her vulva and the shadow between her cheeks exposed straight-on to the startled janitor. Anna’s arms flew down, trying to shield her crotch and breasts at once, but the angles were impossible—she was exposed everywhere, from the nipples on her trembling chest to the cleft of her ass pressed against the tile, white socks and black shoes jutting out awkwardly on either side.

The janitor’s face wrinkled in disgust, her eyes flicking up and down Anna’s naked body—lingering on the patch of pubic hair above Anna’s slit, the soft flesh of her breasts, the thin line of her belly, and the smooth skin between her open thighs.

A barrage of words Anna couldn’t follow, her own name lost beneath angry mutters and the sudden litany of “Britney Spears, Madonna, Katy Perry—tsk, tsk!”

Anna scrambled to explain, voice shaking, “Please, it’s not what it looks like, I—”

But the old woman barely listened. She walked out, then returned with a mop and a bucket, pushing them toward Anna with a sharp gesture.

“But—I don’t have any clothes!” Anna stammered, tears pricking her eyes. “Can you find me something to wear? Please?”

The woman just handed her the mop and pointed to the spreading puddle.

Humiliation burned in Anna’s cheeks, on her chest, between her legs. Still completely naked except for her socks and shoes, she began mopping the floor. Water sloshed up her calves and splashed her thighs as she moved, the cool air reminding her with every motion of her total vulnerability.

The janitor finally left. Anna worked in silence, her bare breasts jiggling with each movement, her butt and slit visible every time she bent over. She turned, hoping the woman would come back with real clothes.

Instead, the woman handed her something orange and flimsy—a mesh safety vest. Anna held it up, horrified. It was see-through, little more than netting. She slipped it on, the open mesh pressing flat against her chest and belly, offering no real cover. The Velcro was too weak to even keep the front closed; her breasts and pussy were on display through every gap.

The janitor pointed at the puddle and then at Anna’s bare body, as if to say: get back to work.

So Anna stood there, mopping up water with nothing on but her Mary Janes, white socks, and a see-through vest, her breasts and everything below the waist clearly visible through the cheap orange mesh, left to her shame and the empty echo of the tiled room.