When I was a freshman, I hooked up with a boy in class who was in a long-distance relationship. I often spent the night at his place, making love all night until dawn, then pretending nothing happened as we went to school one after another.
One time we entered the classroom one after another, casually sitting in the corner of the last row near the door, with him on my left.
That day I wore a backless one-piece short dress, legs crossed with my left leg over the right, sitting tilted.
During class, while listening to the lecture, I flipped through the pages out of boredom, scribbling notes casually, legs swinging back and forth.
Suddenly I felt a bit of heat under my left leg as his hand reached over, exploring deep in the cross of my legs. "Hey wait, we're in class!" I glanced at him.
He ignored me and kept exploring, sliding over the fabric clinging to my skin. My legs squeezed tighter, yet I couldn't help but turn the open side toward him.
His fingers slipped past the fabric, going deeper. I seemed to hear a faint wet sound, but I didn't care anymore, using all my strength to suppress the trembling and gasps that threatened to escape.
In class, gripping my pen tightly, feeling the exhaustion after intense stimulation, I watched him pull out his soaking wet fingers and wipe them all on my dress.