The following is a flash fiction piece I wrote when I was 16 for CW 10.
The lights were switched off and the curtains draped over the half-open windows, filtering the early afternoon light. The ceiling fans droned on and on in their orbit, their motion hypnotic, their sound somnolent. Air heavy with lethargy pervaded the classroom, its walls plastered with watercolored sheets, and hung over rows of desks upon which the children lay slumped, their arms cushioning their heads as they slept—or pretended to. It was naptime, and anyone whom Sister Angie (who had four eyes) caught not sleeping would be told off. And so the children slept—or pretended to. A certain little girl tried to sleep, tried her very best to, but she couldn’t. So she tried to pretend to be sleeping, tried very hard to, and she managed—but only barely. Restless, she squirmed in her seat, her mind filled with the image of the toilet, its smooth, ivory seat, its caves and curves, its well of water, and warm yellow piss gushing into it in furious spurts. Oh, how she wanted to relieve herself! But she did not. She should have been sleeping at the time after all; she did not want to disappoint Sister Angie (who was very kind to her). And so, restless, she squirmed in her seat, and tried to repress the urge to let go (which was so easy really—only, she would have to bear with the wetness and the taunts and the shame)—by squeezing her thighs together, hard. She squeezed them and rubbed them and pressed them together (as she squirmed in her seat, restless) and then an unfamiliar feeling washed over her—throbbing—taut (like a violin string stretched tightly, trembling, quivering as it created sound). She found it strange and strangely pleasurable. The following day found her doing it again (not knowing what it was but hiding it) during naptime, and again the naptime after that, and after that, and so on. And her thoughts wandered beyond the image of the toilet, with its smooth, ivory seat, its caves and curves, its well of water, and warm yellow piss gushing into it in furious spurts.