Don't Act like You Don't Like it

Ember and Ashley share the same orange detention bench while the clock over the coach’s desk marks seconds too loudly. Ember’s phone stays dark. Ashley watches her thighs flex under the short white pleats, the way Ember’s knee bounces each time she swipes leftover glitter from her skin. “You keep looking at me like you want to kill me,” Ashley says, voice low, “but your breathing says something else.” Ember’s laugh comes out sharp. It dies when Ashley reaches over and presses her palm flat between Ember’s open knees, sliding upward until heat meets cotton. “Stop,” Ember whispers, yet she doesn’t push the hand away. Ashley answers by hooking her fingers inside the waistband and tugging the panties down to Ember’s ankles. She slides off the bench, kneels, and spreads Ember wider with both thumbs. Her tongue meets wet folds, slow at first, just enough pressure to make Ember’s hips lift. Ember’s fingers dig into the edge of the desk; she tastes metallic fear on her tongue. Then Ashley seals her mouth over Ember’s clit, sucking gently, flicking faster, and Ember moans so loud the empty room answers her back. Legs shake. Ashley stays locked in place, tongue circling, dipping, pushing inside until Ember shatters, first orgasm rolling through her like a pulled thread. She tries to close her thighs, but Ashley holds them open and keeps licking, tongue soft, insistent, collecting every new pulse of slick that leaks out. Ember comes again, quieter this time, a series of small aftershocks that leave her lips parted and eyes unfocused. Ashley rises, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and offers a smirk. “Still hate me?” Ember doesn’t answer. She pulls Ashley down into her lap, flips their skirts up, and presses two slick fingers straight inside her until Ashley gasps her name against Ember’s neck.