End story from deviantart

[frzutgghffg]

This is not my story, but it’s really good.



Recently a friend asked me if I’d had any real life ENF experiences. And of course the answer is yes. I think everyone has had a few wardrobe mishaps, even if they’re just accidental slips. Any girl who has ever worn a bikini can affirm. And I've had a few. There was the time my costume started coming apart in the middle of a school play, and everyone saw my butt. There was the time I opened the blinds in a fourth-story hotel room and gave a group of builders an eyeful. And who could forget the time I came downstairs to fetch some clothes from the drier and discovered that not only was I not home alone, but also that my mother had invited the neighbours over for tea? But of all these mortifying situations, one memory in particular really sticks with me. Every time I think back to it, it makes me cringe, and if I’m being honest, I can feel my cheeks burning even as I write this. It happened when I was on a school trip.

The trip was to a so-called ‘experience centre’, where we got to do a variety of outdoor activities like abseiling and kayaking and quad-biking—all the things that a shy teenage girl who spent most of her time reading romantasy novels would utterly adore, as you might imagine. I’d only moved to the school a few months ago, and hadn’t made any friends either. Truthfully I don’t think I’d bothered, looking back now. I think we were shortly due to graduate, so I figured what was the point? Maybe some of the other girls took a little umbridge to this. Maybe they mistook my shyness for a sense of superiority or something. Who knows? In any case, I certainly wasn’t part of the group, and the girls I ended up sharing a dorm with spent more time talking about me than to me, that was for sure. Gossiping about how much of a weird loner I was, probably.

Aside from the company, the accommodation sucked. We stayed in dorms of eight. There was mould growing on the ceiling, the mattresses were hard, and the girl in the bunk above mine snored like a chainsaw. Worst of all were the showers. They were in a separate block halfway between the boys’ dorm and ours and were made up of separate unisex cubicles. No one in the broader management of the so-called ‘experience centre’ thought anything could go awry with allowing a bunch horny teenagers to denude themselves with only a laminate partition separating them from members of the opposite sex. Plus the hot water ran out in minutes, which was utterly tragic after a long day of getting rained on and splattered with mud and losing your bookmark somewhere along the way.

We were there for two weeks. Two rotten weeks. And if I remember rightly (and how could I ever forget?) it was on the evening of maybe the third or fourth day that one of the girls overheard me complaining about yet another cold shower and helpfully informed me that there was one cubicle in particular that never ran out of hot water. It was the one right in the middle of the block. At the time I probably should have thought more of it, especially since the girl giving me this advice was, to be frank, a real bitch. But if I had given it more thought, I wouldn’t be telling an anonymous community on the internet (and I love you all) this soul-crushing story now, would I?

The next day when I went to take a shower, I was glad to find the cubicle in question vacant, and downright delighted as I turned the knob and immediately saw steam rising from the tiles. I stepped into the warm stream and allowed my aching body to luxuriate in its soothing cascade, washing away the dirt and grime of the day. (Alright, full disclosure: these events are much more generalised in my memory, but like I said, I’ve read a lot of romantasy novels. Plus this was a few years ago. Most days I can’t remember what I’ve had for breakfast, so I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with some florid imagery here and there to fill in the gaps, okay?)

One thing I do clearly recall though was my surprise when I exited the shower. The place had been virtually empty when I’d arrived. As I left it was packed, and mostly with boys. I remember the awkwardness of skirting past, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, and making a beeline to the girls’ dorms. This wasn’t unusual, of course. Everyone got showered and then got changed back at the dorms. The shower block was just that—a block of showers. There were no changing rooms or anything. You even had to strip down in the shower cubicle itself, trying not to get your socks wet in the process. I think it had been a communal block at one time, perhaps when the ‘experience centre’ only catered for boys, back when girls weren’t allowed to do anything but knit and wash dishes and mend clothes and read romantasy novels. (Doesn’t seem that bad to me, but my mother would kill me for saying so. Plus I don’t know how to knit.) I think what struck me was how energised the boys all seemed to be though, hooting and hollering at each other, all testosteroned up. I gathered they’d just finished playing football or something.

The next thing that probably should have given me pause was the way all the other girls were giggling when I got back to the dorm. One of them asked me if I’d enjoyed my shower, and I’m sure I found it all very suspicious, but obviously not suspicious enough, because I used the same shower the next day. And the next day. And the next day…

I think it was at the start of the second week when I first heard the phrase ‘the Toss Locker’. It was in reference to a certain cubicle in the shower block, and you can probably imagine from the name what went on there. Get a bunch of teenage boys, force them to room together with very little privacy for longer than a week, and naturally they look for places to relieve themselves. And what better place than in the shower? I’m pretty sure I was horrified when I discovered this. The idea that the rivulets and globules of 'shampoo' left on the tiled floor, that I had probably stood in, could in fact be the jizz of several dozen boys, was revolting to me, and yet I’ll admit I was fascinated by the notion of a guy happily beating his meat in the same spot I’d been standing in only moments before. Luckily I discovered that the Toss Locker wasn’t my cubicle, thank god. It was the one nextdoor. And so I thought nothing of it. I kept using the shower. Every single day. And it wasn’t until the last day of the trip—the very last day—that I found out about the peephole.

See the whole thing was well known. And of course it was. Most of the students had been going to the fucking ‘experience centre’ year on year. It was only the clueless new kid (i.e. me), that wasn’t in on it. But everyone else knew. Everyone. And that was why there was always hot water in my cubicle. Because all the other girls avoided it. And that was why the boys used the Toss Locker as their prime wanking spot. Because a little over halfway down the wall, there was a nice inconspicuous hole. And to my horror I learnt that it was through this hole that every single boy in my class had seen me showering. They’d been taking it in turns to watch me strip down and lather up. Butt naked and soaking wet, they’d each had a chance to buff their bananas as I unwittingly gave them a nice long show. One lucky peeper had even (oh god…) seen me make extensive use of the showerhead sometime in the middle of the second week. And while the boys had been fapping behind my back, the girls had all been laughing behind it. I don’t know which stung more.

I was humiliated. Utterly humiliated. But also, you may not be surprised to learn given the type of artwork I produce, extremely turned on.

It's a quirky little paradox, isn’t it? I mean I’m not a voyeur or anything. And I’m definitely not a masochist. I don’t actually like the idea of being made a public laughingstock. It was horrible. I’d go back and undo it if I could, believe me. I was teased mercilessly after that, right up until graduation. But the thought of all those boys… pumping their big, hard cocks… staring at my naked body…

Well let’s just say that although this story doesn’t get to have a happy ending, sometimes, when I’m taking a particularly nostalgic shower...I do.

Yours cringingly,
Enfree

[RaccoonBatteryStaple]

That was intense. Thanks for sharing!