Bad Aptitudes

Four girls press their knees together, laptops burning white-hot across their thighs. The results flash up—ordinary futures, miles apart. A sudden laugh cracks through the disappointment. Why pretend? They all know what they’re actually good at. Hot. Wet. Willing. The hush that follows isn’t shy; it’s electric. Eyes meet, drop to mouths, slide lower. Fabric clings. Breaths shorten. One of them licks her bottom lip and suddenly every pair of panties feels too tight, every seat too warm. Hands start wandering—over denim seams, up bare arms, beneath cotton. The room feels smaller, louder with the soft catch of breaths and the slick sound of lips parting against necks. They’re already practiced at knowing exactly how each body wants to be touched; the difference now is letting it count for something. They keep going, dragging the teasing out, savoring every squeeze and moan until the answer they really needed is written all over flushed skin: together, they were built for this.