First Taste Of Mischief

Two girls sit in the quiet room, chalk clicking against the board. Ginger’s dark hair swings each time she writes another line, while Finley bites her lip, sneaking glances. The teacher steps out. Silence settles, thick with dare. Finley’s palm slides under the hem of her skirt, and Ginger watches, breath caught. Fingers slip in slow, deliberate strokes, the chair legs squeaking when Finley’s hips shift. Ginger moves closer, lips parted, and her own hand disappears between her thighs. Their fingers work in secret rhythm, legs parted, eyes half-lidded and locked on each other. Every creak in the hallway freezes them for a heartbeat, but the risk only sharpens the pleasure. Soft wet sounds rise between them, a stifled whimper, then another. Fingertips glisten. Ginger’s natural tits press against her blouse as she arches, Finley’s knuckles flex deeper. One more hurried thrust and both girls clamp their mouths shut, shaking, coming hard while footsteps echo down the corridor outside.