rencontre de midi dans la salle de bains

In the cubicle next to her, Therese can hear the hard gush of urine escaping from between the legs of her co-worker, three cups of coffee torrenting to the point fixe of the white porcelain toilet bowl. Therese squeezes her thighs together, holding off on her own need to pee, listening, in awe of her own gall, giggling inside at the thought of a wet bum and the awkward shuffle of toilet paper behind the arse and wiping front to back. Surely she must be sick, to gain pleasure from knowing that the girl in the cubicle next to her is aware that Therese is able to hear. Therese listens for the shifting on the seat, the tearing of toilet paper, oh, and some more, and the small sigh that seems to accompany these demeaning primal labours. Therese can never pee if someone is in the cubicle next to her, instead she allows herself to enjoy, sitting, forcing herself not to pee a delightful sensation of muscle tightening and thoughts of impending release. Therese can see her co-workers shoes, small they are, she knows who it is, and she is pleasured by the thought of this forced intimacy, and the secret smile she will have going back to her seat, knowing who may have a wet in their knickers.

The girl in the cubicle next to her stands, and does up her trousers, Therese can hear the slide of fabric against fabric as the pants go over hips, the dull snap of a button or two being done up, and the titillating zip, before the person turns briefly to flush. Probably they look in the bowl, Therese thinks, biting her lip with wicked glee. And at the sound of the water flooding the bowl, taking her coworkers piddly shame to join all the rest, Therese relaxes her muscles and lets go, slumping her shoulders at the relief.


back to index