You let her get dressed

“Fine,” you smile, as you step away from the pile, plonking yourself back on the bed, and watching as your girlfriend scrambles furiously to stretch it economically only over those parts of her least appropriate to display to strangers, before practically sprinting away, her bare feet thundering over the wooden floor, the door slamming.

Your erection, however, does not relent, and you find yourself absent-mindedly fondling it as you imagine what might be transpiring between your dormitory and the bathrooms down the hall and round the corner. Probably, Ally is now enthroned in a stall, her skirt around her ankles as her stream patters into the bowl, as she stifles a cry of relief. But maybe there is a queue – it is, after all, the bowel-and-bladder-voiding rush hour – and she is poised anxiously as she awaits an opening, shifting her weight between no more than a handful of toes at a time, perhaps sharing the mixed-gender space with one or two others waiting their turn, either noticing her advanced state of desperation both in her restlessness and her rudimentary dress, serving up something of a treat (you realise with mile jealousy) for any male eyes of a certain taste. Could there even have been a more drastic development? Could she be knelt, right now, on the corridor floor, in a warm, spreading puddle, having sunk to her knees in defeat upon falling victim first to spurts, and then spurts becoming a rushing stream, before making it to the safe haven of the commode? And if so, should you be out there now, with a towel, attempting to preserve her dignity (and your own relationship to boot)?

As your masturbatory reverie so turns to panic, the door opens – you hastily return your hand and penis to their proper, separate positions – and Ally enters, unexpectedly glistening with and dripping water like a dog returning from a swim. You throw her a towel. “What happened?”

She sighs, with a hint of scowl, as though finally processing the last few minutes, all while patting herself down. “Stalls were all taken. I took a shower instead.” She looked away, awkwardly, unable to voice the detail you understood intuitively: to avert disaster, she improvised, stripping (at record speed, you imagine) and standing beneath a jet of hot water as cover, for any ears or noses in range, for emptying her bladder into that drain.

“Quick thinking,” you remark, with a hint of pride. Susie barely reacts, instead completing her wardrobe, in a manner – you notice, with mild concern – seeming to minimise any further skin exposure to, or eye contact, with, you.

“Um…I’ve really got to get going.”

Which, to be fair, you know she does. “Talk tonight?”

She nods. “Talk tonight.”