Book 4: Grading Her Wet Pússy

Cheryl woke up with her thighs sticky and her body already throbbing. The heat between her legs was sharp, heavy, and it hit her before she had even opened her eyes. She never wore panties to bed. She hated them. They always got in the way. The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat, her skin still hot from the dream she had been lost in.

She didn’t care to check what time it was. She didn’t care that she had a test she hadn’t studied for. None of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was her pussy, soaked and aching for attention.

Her hand was already sliding down before she even thought about what she was doing. Her fingers moved over bare skin, soft and wet. She parted her folds and felt the slick heat waiting for her. Her clit pulsed hard, needy, begging. She pressed two fingers inside, slow at first but deep, and her body arched into the pillow as a moan escaped her lips.

Her legs spread wider. Her palm pressed down against her clit harder. The wet sounds filled the room, messy and loud in the quiet. Her hips rolled up, searching for more she had been edging herself all night in her sleep without even knowing it.

Her other hand grabbed her breast. Full. Soft. Heavy in her palm. Her nipple was already stiff, aching for touch. She pinched it, twisted it, pulled until her pussy clenched so tight around her fingers she had to push in a third. Her pace grew faster. Her teeth sank into the pillow. Moans spilled out without care.

She didn’t care if the girl across the hall heard she didn’t care if the whole floor heard. She wanted it. She needed it. She was starving for it.

Her mind flashed to the older guy she sometimes saw in the hallway. She had never spoken to him but he was tall, broad and bearded. His voice alone made her want to bend over without hesitation. She pictured his hands gripping her hips, flipping up her skirt, finding her bare underneath, wet and dripping and ready.

She pictured him pushing her against a desk, telling her to shut up before someone heard how loud she got. She pictured him fucking her rough until she couldn’t breathe, until she was nothing but sound and sweat.

The thought ripped her open. The orgasm hit hard. Her legs shook, her breath caught, her tits tingled under her hand. Her pussy squeezed tight around her fingers, pulsing as slick poured out, soaking her hand, the sheets, the inside of her thighs.

She stayed there, twitching, fingers still buried, her eyes half open, her brain buzzing from how fast and deep it had hit her. She didn’t move until the red numbers of the clock finally cut through the haze.

“Fuck,” she muttered, dragging her hand out slowly.

Wetness dripped down between her thighs. She stumbled to the bathroom naked, skin flushed, hair messy. She turned the water hot, so hot the mirror fogged in seconds. She stepped under the spray, her skin prickling as heat met heat. Water rushed down her chest, down her stomach, down her thighs.

Her fingers slid between her folds again, just rinsing, maybe teasing. The touch made her lips part. Made her teeth catch her bottom lip. The aftershocks were still there, small sparks pulsing through her pussy, and it made her want more.

She scrubbed her breasts, soap sliding slick over the heavy curves, her nipples stiff again, so sensitive under her own touch. She didn’t take her time. She rinsed fast, water running over her, washing slick away, making her thighs shine.

She stepped out still wet, steam clinging to her skin. She dried only enough to pull clothes on, leaving the rest of the water to air dry under fabric. She liked it like that, water trapped against skin under tight clothes.

She pulled on a black skirt. A white crop top. A thin bra that did nothing to hide her breasts. She didn’t put on panties. She slipped on her boots, touched her lips with gloss, and that was it.

The air outside hit her damp skin, made the top stick to her chest. The skirt brushed against her thighs, still damp where they met. She walked to campus, late but unbothered. Her hips swayed. Her breasts bounced with every step, the bra useless.

She felt eyes on her before she even reached the building. Guys stared. Girls whispered. She knew what they were thinking. Wondering if she was wearing anything under the skirt. Wondering if the thin bra really hid anything at all.

She didn’t look away. She didn’t slow down. She liked it. She liked the heat of their eyes on her, the way the whispers followed behind her.

She opened the door to the building without hurry. She didn’t pretend she was sneaking in she walked straight down the hall. Her boots echoed on the floor.

When she pushed open the classroom door, it was quiet. Heads were bent over tests. Pens were scraping against paper. Nobody spoke a word. The professor looked up when the door clicked shut.

Professor Calder. His eyes locked onto her. They didn’t blink. They didn’t look away.

Cheryl met his stare, steady and unapologetic. She didn’t smile didn’t fake embarrassment. She just stood there, then walked to her usual spot in the front row.

She bent over her desk like she was digging in her bag, though she hadn’t brought anything worth finding. She stayed bent long enough for anyone behind her to see what wasn’t there.

Then she sat back, legs crossed, waiting for Professor to come over with her test.

Calder came over, set the test on her desk. He didn’t say anything. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t even look at the paper. She just picked up her pen and started moving it over the corner of the page, lines without meaning.

She hadn’t studied. She hadn’t read a thing and she didn’t care.

Her lips closed over the pencil. She sucked lightly. She shifted in her seat, pressing herself against the edge of the desk. The little rub sent a hum through her body, enough to ease the boredom.

“Five minutes,” Calder said finally, voice tight, his eyes locked anywhere but on her.

She didn’t move right away she let the others finish, let them carry their tests up first. Then she stood, slow, her top slipping lower until the curve of her breasts almost spilled free. She didn’ try to fix it.

She carried her paper forward. Dropped it on his desk. Her name scrawled across the top, a kiss mark pressed in gloss, nothing else.

She leaned in. Close enough that he had to see what he had been trying not to.

He didn’t speak she didn’t either. The silence stretched tight.

Then she straightened, turned and walked out.

Her boots hit the floor hard steady, carrying her down the hall without pause.

The heat between her legs hadn’t left. Not even close.