School friends

Selina and I have known each other since we wore matching school ties. Last week we were meant to be working in her father’s dark-wood study, books spread across the desk. I noticed the way her top stretched across her full breasts whenever she leaned over, the soft swell of her big tits pushing against thin cotton. Her long black hair slipped over one shoulder, and the scent of her skin made the room feel smaller. She reached for my hand, fingers brushing my knuckles, and her eyes caught mine with a spark that wasn’t about research. “You drive me crazy,” she whispered, voice low and warm. “Can’t think when you’re this close.” My pulse jumped. We both felt it—the pull that had been waiting under every shared glance. Books forgotten, she stood, pulled me to the leather couch, and I let her press me down. Her lips met mine, slow at first, then deeper, tasting like mint and heat. Her hand slid under my shirt, finding bare skin, while mine cupped the heavy curve of her breast. She moaned softly, hips shifting against me. When she opened my shirt and kissed down my neck, every thought of homework vanished. We undressed each other with quiet urgency, the study silent except for the rustle of clothes and our quick breaths. Her skin felt smooth against mine, her nipples hard as my tongue brushed them. She slipped her hand between my thighs, fingers slick, teasing until I arched. I returned the touch, parting her, sliding inside her wet heat. The leather creaked beneath us as we moved together, mouths locked, hips rolling in a steady rhythm. Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me closer, her soft gasps turning into broken cries. We came tangled, sweating, hearts pounding. Afterwards we lay quiet, bodies still linked, the only sound our slowing breaths and the faint tick of the study clock.