It had happened again. My own mind was on automatic and I was furiously masturbating. Was it happening again? Just an hour after I had just cum?

It started the way it normally does. I was in the cubicle of the bathroom of the library. The one on the extreme left, my ‘lucky’ cubicle. Locking the door of the cubicle was like locking all the confusion and anxiety outside. Within my own little cubicle I was alone and safe. Outside, there were the taps and sinks that people could wash their hands in. That was the common area of the bathroom where people could be and where the little monsters of confusion and anxiety were waiting for me to finish. I could stay in the locked cubicle for a long time. My record was 25 minutes. People came in and out of the bathroom, doing a pee, changing their pads, leaving, and not knowing how long I had been in there for.

I tried not to weaken. I peed like I normally did. I was wearing a medium-length skirt. I at all times did to the library. It made the whole thing easier. I did my usual ritual. I pulled out some toilet paper and broke it off, wiping the seat. I hate hoverers. Those women who don’t actually sit down, but hover above the seat, not making contact because they think it is unclean. So they don’t catch germs. They might not catch germs, but they squirt or drip pee all over the seat. I’ve even found smears of period blood. Worst of all, they don’t even clean up after themselves.

I wipe the seat and turn around, pulling my skirt up around my waist. I pulled my panties half-way down to my knees. In that split instant I try to focus. Light blue panties with a red rose on front. ‘May be washed in cold water. 100% cotton.’ I feel the pressure of the toilet seat press against my thighs as I sit down. I let the panties fall down to around my ankles, so that I can spread my knees as far as feasible. I have never been a fan of ‘shaking the lettuce.’ Some women just sit there with their knees together and wonder why their pee sprinkles and they need to wipe lots.

Once, when I sprinkled (I was wearing jeans and so couldn’t open my legs enough) a small stream of warm urine dribbled along my thigh, almost to the back of my knee. Yuck! I much prefer to do a Niagara Falls. Knees aside as much as feasible. With a bit of luck, it comes out as one solid stream, so I don’t really even have to wipe up. I do anyways though.

So far so good. The stream of pee comes to an end. Instead of a sustained noise, there is the interrupted trickle, telling me that my bladder is empty. The trickle comes to a stop. Demons then begin inside my head. Not my mind — but demons. The overwhelming, obsessive need to begin touching. Just to see if my clitoral hood is OK. Just to check that something, somehow, has not entered my vagina. Just to make sure that there is nothing in the folds of my labia. That feels nice, so I keep doing it. The pleasure increases. I am masturbating.

I have done this a thousand times. Just in this very cubicle. I can study in the School library all day. I have it worked out. I take a cushion so that the study chair is more comfortable. In the mornings I drink coffee, but after lunch it is only water. Toilet breaks are once an hour.

I get stressed and anxious. All the time have. Masturbation helps with that. After 20 minutes of studying, I want to go to the bathroom and masturbate. I hold out for as long as feasible. My bladder is full after an hour, and I need to go. And with every pee, I touch myself, I masturbate. I bring myself off.

I touch my clit. I migrate to the entrance to my vagina after about 20 seconds. It is already very wet. I guess I’m a bit like a cow. The more you milk a cow, the more milk it produces. The more you rub a pussy, the more juice it makes.

Sometimes, the pussy-juice mucous happens at precisely the right time in my cycle. Not thin and watery, so that it drips for an inch and then falls in the water. Not thick like honey, so that it breaks off under its own weight. But in that magic Goldilocks zone, where the mucous makes one long drip. Going all the way from my pussy to the toilet water. I try not to do that. I discover it a bit gross.

My fingers are now punching their way inside me. I am half-listening, making sure no one else is present in the bathroom. The slick slick slick of my finger-fucking makes those sloshing sounds of wetness which echo off the cold tiles of the bathroom. The place stinks of tuna. My vagina spasms around my fingers. Trying to grip some imaginary penis that is fucking me. I cum hard. Just the once this time.

I wipe the wetness from between my legs. I wipe my fingers. I flush and go to wash my hands. No one has yet, but the smell would betray me if I am ever betrayed.

I am now relaxed and stress-free. I have another hour of study in front of me. Perhaps another coffee. Each hour. Every hour. I will be back in 60 minutes.