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The others were too far away to notice, but I felt nearly certain that Catya glimpsed the tent that was forming under my towel. This time, she didn’t even try to look away, but just stared at it with the amusement and interest of an art connoisseur.
She added with a smirk, “Just make sure you keep it wrapped tightly.” And then, “Grab your stuff, I’ll show you where the actual men’s showers are.”
Towel firmly in place, wrapped around my hips and held up by my white-knuckle hands, I followed Catya’s lead. The team parted like the Red Sea, though not without another chorus of wolf whistles and bawdy grins. Was this what it felt like to be a male stripper? Had my soccer team become an intoxicated bachelorette party?
Catya waved them off, and after I’d grabbed my clothes, escorted me out the door, down a hallway, and to another entrance, this one painted bright green.
“Here we are,” she announced. “You can shower alone and in peace.”
“What if I don’t want to shower alone?” I asked innocently.
Her eyes lit up. She knew exactly what I was suggesting, but refused to take the bait.
“Then,” she said evenly, “I guess you better drop a bar of soap and hope for the best.”
Having totally trounced me, she grinned, flipped her hair and walked back to whence we came as I chuckled quietly.
Chapter 9
Catya
Back in the lockers, it was time for us to actually shower. Simon may have vanished to the men’s lockers, but the girls had had enough entertainment to last them the rest of the night, possibly the rest of their lifetimes.
Heaps of time was devoted to dissecting the specifics of his body — the curves of his ass, the fine, firm muscles of his back, even some conjecture as to penis length and girth. The only thing I can say in their defense is that they were exceptionally complimentary.
What? I didn’t say it was a strong defense.
At last, they’d all shampooed and scrubbed until there was no part of themselves left to wash. The subject of Simon’s body had also been exhausted, there are only so many pieces of the human anatomy to analyze.
Gradually, they abandoned the confines of our locker room, and went back to their respective dorms, apartments and sorority houses. Somehow, while they were in the process of getting dressed, I hadn’t even considered leaving the warmth of the shower. I’d stayed under its inviting steam until long after everyone else had dried off.
The realization didn’t really hit until I realized the locker room was silent, and I was all alone, still soaking in the water. Maybe this was my chance for some alone time that Simon had been asking me about that morning.
Alone time. What could I do with alone time?
My hand gave me the answer without me even realizing what I was doing. With a mind of its own, my hand began to migrate down to my pussy, tracing the light downy hair from my belly button to the top of my pubic bone, where it was met by denser fur. Was it a good idea to touch myself in a relatively public place? I discounted the thought as quickly as it had sprung up, then immediately wondered who this new, bold, sexually hungry Catya was. I liked her.
My fingers spread open my pussy lips, and anchored themselves to my clitoris. I rubbed it gently, warming it up for some playtime. There was no need. The shower water aside, I was already soaking wet, if you take my meaning. My clit had been ready for a while. Or, to be more precise, since I’d seen Simon’s bare ass.
Don’t think of Simon, my mind interrupted. Whatever may have happened today, he’s still well the hell off limits.
Yes. Right. Good point. He might have a gorgeous body, but he was still my coach.
I forcefully directed my mind to some other jackoff material — Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan Gosling, etc. Y’know, the staples.
My fingers responded to the suggestion, and began to strum my clit harder, making lustful patterns across its pearly surface. My breath came shorter and faster. Usually, touching my clit was enough to get me off. Today, I felt like I needed to explore more of my body, to feel pleasure everywhere.
So with that, I slipped a few of those fingers inside myself, and began to stroke my vaginal walls. Yes, that was it, that was what I’d been looking for. The stroking became harder, faster, until my knees were so weak that I had to slide down the shower wall, my knees splayed wide, the shower water still coming down fast.
“Simon,” I murmured, and my mind, which had been so diligently providing images of male celebrities, snapped back to thinking about Simon. His body, his kindness, his devilish grin, his hair… I dug deeper, no longer resisting the thought of him. All I wanted was to feel as good as possible, and if that meant relinquishing control to my subconscious, if it meant holding thoughts of Simon in my mind’s eye and toying with my clit — well, so be it.
