Turn 19 of 228
Check OnlyFans for reactions to the break room photos. After that, post about walking to the stores naked on OnlyFans. Finally, text Diane and tell her what you just did after work. Start pissing while walking home.
Lena stops at the corner two blocks from her apartment, sets the bags down on the sidewalk, and opens her phone with greasy fingers. The break room photos have been up for three hours and the numbers have jumped — seventy-five subscribers now, twelve new since she posted. The comments are stacked thick under the mirror shot: *you're actually at work??*, *the stubble and the belly and the confidence is unreal*, *someone SAW you and you just kept eating???* One commenter has tipped five dollars with the message: *you're the bravest person on this site.* She reads the thread slowly, feeling the warmth build in her chest and lower belly, and then she opens a new post and types fast: *After work I walked out of my office building completely naked. Through the lobby. Past the security guard. Out the front door. Walked four blocks to the bodega naked and bought two weeks of food. Then walked to the dispensary naked and bought two weeks of weed. I'm walking home naked right now with my hands full. People are staring.* She attaches a selfie — arm extended, her naked body filling the frame, bags of food and alcohol visible, the sidewalk and a blurred stranger behind her — and hits post.
She picks up the bags and keeps walking. Her bare feet slap against the warm concrete and her belly sways with each step, heavy and low, and the evening air moves across her skin. She can feel herself needing to pee — a pressure that's been building since she left the dispensary, the two liters of soda from lunch working through her — and she doesn't slow down. She lets it go mid-stride. The warmth spreads down her inner thighs and runs along the inside of her legs and splashes against the sidewalk in a steady stream that patters on the concrete and leaves a trail behind her. She keeps walking. A woman across the street stops and stares. Lena feels the urine running past her knees and ankles and pooling briefly at each footfall before the next step carries her forward and the stream catches up again. The relief is enormous — a full-body loosening that makes her sigh out loud — and she feels the wet warmth cooling on her skin in the evening air.
She picks up her phone from where she's balanced it on top of the bags and opens her text thread with Diane. She types one-handed: *I walked out of the building naked. Through the lobby. Past the security guard. Out the front door. Walked to the bodega and the dispensary like this. I'm walking home right now.* She hits send and doesn't wait for a response. She types again: *I'm pissing myself while I walk. On the sidewalk. People can see.* She sends that too and keeps walking, the trail behind her dark and glistening on the concrete. Her apartment building is half a block ahead.
Diane's response comes in ninety seconds. *Lena. Please tell me you're joking.* Lena types back: *I have photos on my OnlyFans. I'm not joking.* A long pause — two minutes, three — and then: *The security guard saw you?* Lena types: *He saw me walk out. He didn't stop me.* Another pause. Then Diane: *I need to think about this. Go home. Please.* Lena reads the message and feels something complicated move through her — the adrenaline of the exposure, the warmth of the piss still drying on her legs, the strange tenderness of Diane saying please. She types: *I'm already home.* She pushes through the front door of her building, naked, soaked, carrying two weeks of food and alcohol and weed, and the lobby is empty and the elevator opens and she steps inside and the doors close and she's alone with the reflection of her body in the polished metal — 245 pounds, unwashed, stubbled, glistening with urine and sweat, grinning.
The elevator rises and her phone buzzes in her hand. Diane again: *We need to talk in person tomorrow. Not in my office. Somewhere neutral. Coffee.* Lena stares at the message and feels the pull of it — Diane's voice in text, the way she keeps engaging, the way she keeps trying. She types: *Okay.* and the elevator opens on her floor and she walks to her apartment, naked, dripping, loaded with supplies, and the door closes behind her and the apartment smell hits her — old food, old smoke, the dried urine from the floor — and it smells like home.