You shrug and ask, "You have a spare set of clothes in the locker room, right?"
"Of course... I can't walk around in my pitstained gym clothes all day. But what about you?"
You... actually hadn't thought of this. You don't have anything but what you're wearing now.
"That's fine," Whtiney says before you even need to reply. "We have some spare soccer uniforms in the girl's locker room you could borrow."
"I know you're only a few IQ points away from being on the shortbus, but in case you forgot, I'm a guy."
"It's no big deal. Those soccer uniforms are basically unisex. Just some spats and a tee. You'd fit just fine in one of the bigger ones..."
[ ] Forget it. Girl's clothes are girl's clothes. You can change, but I'll stay wet.
[X] Fine.
You're wet and you're cold, now isn't the time to enforce the patriarchal gender binary.
You follow Whitney to the locker rooms. Even though there's no one around, there's still a certain taboo to entering that holds you back.
"Don't be a pussy," Whitney scolds. "What would your anime heroes do, huh? The only difference between locker rooms is one has blue tile and the other has pink."
It's hard to argue. Whitney steps past the threshold and you follow.
What she said seems true enough. It's a normal locker room: rows of lockers, with showers at one end, and an office for the girls' soccer coach.
"The spares should be in that bin," Whitney says. She's already stepping out of her dripping spats as she heads toward her locker. You divert your gaze until you're sure she's disappeared around a corner.
You dig through the hamper full of uniforms, red and black in the school's colors. They don't look exactly feminine, but even the largest ones you can find are a bit small. Especially the spats. Could you fit into these?
You glance around. There's another issue. Where can you change that's relatively private? You try not to let your thoughts linger on the fact that Whitney is probably naked at this very moment just a few feet away.
As if on cue, you see Whtiney's panties go parasailing over the arched roof of the lockers and land next to your feet with a wet flop.
"Ugh," Whitney groans, perhaps to herself. You think you hear the sound of her fanning herself with paper. "What a relief... those spats cut off circulation, you know."
"Do you have to throw your underwear around like some kind of stripper?" you grouse, pulling off your shirt. You poke the sodden white cotton with one toe of your shoe as if you really can't believe she'd do that. If her aim was a little worse they could have landed on your head.
You kick your shoes and pants off. Should the boxers go too? Nah. You decide to make the heroic effort of pulling on the spats even with the extra fabric making it harder.
First one leg... then the other... you tug... no progress. You hop up and down and pull at the waistband, but the constriction is unbelievable.
"Are you decent yet?" Whitney calls out.
"No..." you say. "Jesus, give me a second."
You tug and hop some more, and end up falling back against the wall, banging your head on the brick with a wham. You feel woozy.
Despite your warning, Whitney appears in front of you from her row of lockers. She looks worried at first, but then sees your predicament and snorts. "Are they really that tight?" she says.
"What are you doing, you mongoloid? Go away!"
She takes a step forward.
"You're a complete dweeb. One hundred percent dorkapus. You can't even put on a pair of pants... here..."
She puts a hand on your back and eases you away from the wall. You'd kick at her-- but-- well.
"You have to relax your muscles, you know?" She circles behind you, her chin against your shoulder. Her wet hair is directly against your ear, and it tickles. Drops of water run down your chest.
"Take your hands away," she coos. "Come on, I'll help. Here--" she puts one hand on either hip and gently tugs up. "You have to be slow. It doesn't work if you do it all at once."
"Whitney-- this isn't--"
The fabric of the spats makes its transit slowly up your thighs. Her cold wet palms feel slippery against the warmth of your legs. Her breath against your cheeks is slow and steady.
"Wha-aa-t's this~" she hums when she hits some resistance. "I wonder..."
You choke on whatever it is you think you're about to say and go tumbling forward, but Whitney doesn't let you out of her grip. You fall on your face, knees down and ass up. Whitney is lying atop you in a spooning position.
"All your muscles have to be relaxed, Ally~"
You'd groan or cry out in protest, but your face is buried directly in the sopping panties she threw at your feet. Every time you try to speak, your nostrils fill with a tangy scent that makes you feel even woozier. With Whitney pressing down on you -- is she doing this on purpose? -- the cotton hugs your mouth and nose.
Her hands are rubbing you, slowly, through your boxers. You can't help but wag your hips in response, and Whitney laughs. You feel her arm muscles around your waist, her legs wrapped around yours, her belly against your back. Her whole musculature tenses with every giggle of hers. "Relax, relax..." she says. "We'll never get them on if you're not relaxed... isn't this nice?..."
Her palms tense and release with every laugh, too. They're still cold, but warming rapidly around you. You grit your teeth as if to fight these feelings, but all that does is catch some of that wet cotton between your teeth wringing out an acrid spurt of liquid on your tongue.
"Come on, come--" her voice is a little crazed now, a little ragged. "Relax, let it all out-- it'll feel okay once it's over, right? You like it-- oh-- look at that, are you smelling those things? You're such a fucking pervert, huh?"
Suddenly you find the strength to throw your head back. But too late. She's on you like a rider on a horse, and won't let up. She leans down, neck over yours, and bites your shoulder hard. And then -- sweet release. You collapse on your belly, and Whitney is still lying on top of you as your vision blurs and you try to catch your breath.
Lying on the pink tile floor of a girl's locker room with a pair of spats half pulled-up around you, leaking fluids into your boxers, you can't help but feel violated. This battles with the feelings of relief in your mind and makes you more than a bit confused. You've never had another person's hands on you before. Not like that.
You're even more confused when, finally dismounting, Whitney kneels beside you and whispers, "I came, too."
She reaches under your chin and pulls her panties away. You don't even fight it when she pulls your spats off and your boxers too.
"These are all ruined, I guess," she says. "I'll just throw them in my locker for now. Hey, are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
You stumble to your feet and brace yourself against the wall. When you're sure you won't faint, you pull on your old, wet jeans. From somewhere behind, you think you hear the sound of Whitney deeply inhaling before she slams the locker door shut.
"Guess we're kind of bust for today as far as studying goes, huh?" she calls out. "How about tomorrow?"
END EPISODE 1.
GIRLS FUCKED
0/6