Schoolgirls in Detention

Tiffany Tatum, Missy Luv and Kira Thorn sprawl across oversized hotel pillows in nothing but silk slips. They giggle, remembering who first slipped a hand under who’s skirt during those long, empty study periods. Back then they were three sharp sixteen-year-olds in dangerously short plaid uniforms, socks pulled high, ties tugged loose. Tiffany’s slender fingers, small-boned and fast, had been the ones to peel Missy’s damp cotton panties aside in the deserted music room. Kira watched the door with one ear cocked, but never stopped rubbing herself through her own skirt, eyes bright. They learned how to slide fingers between slick folds without making a sound, how to bite a lower lip instead of moaning when someone came. Sometimes they switched desks in study hall so the hand that gave relief belonged to someone else. Sometimes they waited until gym showers were deserted, three wet bodies pressed close under a single weak stream of water while tongues flicked over tight nipples and soap-slick palms pressed between trembling thighs. Even when the first bell rang they never hurried; they liked feeling the wet spot on the seat afterward, evidence they’d kept for themselves.