The cold tile of the girls' dormitory bathroom bit into Johnny's knees, a stark contrast to the heat coiling in his gut. Above him, Gill was a frantic silhouette against the single grimy window, her breath coming in ragged, desperate little pants that fogged the cool morning air. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, knuckles white, as he drove into her with a rhythm born of pure, youthful urgency. The damp, institutional smell of lye soap and mildew was thick around them, a scent so familiar it was almost unnoticeable, but today it was charged with the illicit thrill of their secret.
"Johnny… oh, god," she gasped, her voice a strained whisper. She threw her head back, auburn hair sticking to the damp skin of her neck. Her hips rocked against his, meeting each of his thrusts with a desperate need that mirrored his own.
He grunted, his own voice low and guttural. "Quiet, Gill. Someone will hear." But his warning was hollow, his own control fraying with every powerful stroke. He gripped her hips, pulling her tighter against him, wanting to consume the sounds she made, to bury them deep inside himself. The small, enclosed space of the stall amplified every slick slap of their bodies, every choked-back moan. This was a place of rules, of cold showers and whispered prayers, and they were desecrating it with a fervor that was almost religious in its intensity.
"I can't… I'm so close," she whimpered, burying her face in the crook of his neck, her teeth grazing his skin.
He could feel it too, the building pressure, the tightening in his loins that promised a cataclysmic release. He picked up the pace, his movements becoming rougher, more demanding. He was just on the edge, the world narrowing to the point of contact between their bodies, when the main bathroom door creaked open.
A wave of cold dread washed over Johnny, instantly dousing the fire in his blood. He froze mid-thrust, every muscle in his body screaming. Gill went rigid against him, her gasp swallowed by his shoulder. The sound of girlish chatter and laughter filled the larger room, echoing off the tiled walls. It was Sarah and Mary, their high-pitched voices unmistakable.
"Did you see Mistress Gable's face at breakfast?" Mary giggled. "She looked like she'd swallowed a lemon whole."
Johnny held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked into Gill's wide, terrified eyes. He could feel the slight tremor running through her body. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a silent command to stay absolutely still. Slowly, carefully, he began to move again, but the frantic rhythm was gone. Now, his thrusts were deep, deliberate, and agonizingly slow, calculated to make no sound. He pulled her flush against him, muffling any potential noise with the press of their bodies.
The tap squeaked, followed by the sound of running water. Gill bit down hard on her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut. A small, suppressed whimper escaped her as he continued his torturously slow assault. The risk, the proximity of discovery, was a potent aphrodisiac. The fear was a current running between them, heightening every sensation. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his chest, a counter-rhythm to the slow, measured pace he forced upon himself. He watched her face, the conflict of pleasure and terror playing out in the twitch of her brow and the trembling of her lips.
"Hurry up," Sarah's voice whined from just outside the stall. "We'll be late for chores."
The water shut off. The shuffling of feet, the creak of the door, and then… silence. Blessed, absolute silence.
Johnny and Gill stayed frozen for a long moment, listening. Nothing. They were alone again.
A shuddering breath escaped Gill's lips. She looked at him, her eyes dark with a mixture of relief and a renewed, wilder hunger. That was all the signal he needed. The dam of his restraint broke. With a low growl, he slammed into her, all pretense of gentleness gone. The slow burn of the past few minutes erupted into a conflagration. He drove into her with a savage, punishing rhythm, chasing the release that had been so cruelly denied.
"Yes," she hissed, her voice raw. "Like that, Johnny. Harder."
She met him with equal ferocity, her nails scoring red lines on his back. The sounds they made were no longer muffled whispers but raw, guttural cries of pleasure. The cold tile, the risk, the orphanage itself all melted away, leaving only the searing heat of their joining. He felt the climax building again, this time an unstoppable tidal wave. He cried out, a rough, ragged sound torn from his throat, as he poured himself into her. Gill arched against him, her own body convulsing in a powerful, shuddering release, her silent scream lost against his mouth.
They collapsed against each other, panting and slick with sweat, the world slowly filtering back in. The distant clang of the lunchtime bell was a harsh intrusion.
The dining hall buzzed with the low murmur of sixty orphans. The clatter of spoons against tin bowls was the room's primary music. Johnny kept his head down, shoveling lukewarm stew into his mouth, trying to act normal. He could feel Gill's eyes on him from two tables away, but he didn't dare look up. His body still thrummed with the aftershocks of their morning, a secret heat under the drab grey wool of his uniform.
A shadow fell over their table. The chatter died down instantly. Every head turned.
"Johnny," a sharp, cold voice cut through the hall.
Johnny's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His blood turned to ice. It was Mistress Gable, her severe face a mask of stern authority, her eyes like chips of flint.
"My office. Now."