The drone of Mr. Henderson’s grammar lesson was a dull buzz. My focus was entirely on the warm pressure of Milana’s hand sliding into my lap. Her fingers, slick with her own spit, found the bulge in my jeans. She didn’t look at me, her face a perfect mask of academic concentration, but her knuckles brushed my hardening cock through the denim.

With a deft, silent tug, she unzipped my fly. The cool classroom air hit my skin, followed by the hot, tight grip of her hand. She wrapped her fingers around my shaft, giving it a slow, firm stroke. I could feel every ridge of her knuckles, the soft pad of her thumb swiping over the swollen head, already leaking pre-cum. Her rhythm was deliberate, a slow pump meant to edge me, to make me throb. I bit my lip, my own textbook a blur.

Under the false safety of the desk, her other hand guided mine to her thigh. I slid my palm up the smooth skin of her leg, under her short skirt, until my fingertips met the damp lace of her panties. I could feel the heat of her pussy through the fabric, a wet patch already forming. She pressed my hand against her, grinding subtly into my palm as she worked my dick.

Her strokes became faster, more urgent. The sound was obscenely wet, a soft *shlick-shlick-shlick* of her fist gliding up and down my length, her spit mixing with my precum. I could see the faint tremor in her arm, the muscles in her forearm flexing with the effort of keeping the motion hidden. Her breath hitched, just once, betraying her own arousal.

“