The first day of spring semester – I find myself back in the impossibly large lecture halls, surrounded by other equally-bored students. I found a seat with no one on either side. I prefer it that way, because I know, on slow days like the first day of class, I will inevitably open up my laptop and wander around in my own internet world. I’ve heard the code of conduct too many times before to pay attention today.
Two boys sit behind me. They’re classic frat guys, with okay-looking bodies and faces, but cocky demeanors, shorts, and flip-flops (the kind that probably have a bottle opener on the underside). At first, I tilt my laptop closed enough so that they won’t be able to see me checking the various sex blogs I like or updating my Twitter with something revealing. But the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of them seeing what I’m doing. I fall into fantasy.
The one boy nudges the other. “Look,” he mouths, pointing to my laptop. There’s a picture of a woman sprawled out, touching herself. Frat Boy #2 snickers as I click through more of my favorite erotica – black and white nudes of women and men, contorting themselves around one another to pause in perfect snapshots of ecstacy. I feel daring for looking at the pictures in class and that excites me. I cross my legs as that excitement spreads down my body, squeezing them tightly.
Frat Boy #1 maneuvers his syllabus over his lap, also liking the selection of pictures. Frat Boy #2 is bored – his idea of sexy porn isn’t the artistic smut that I prefer.
I shift in my seat, tensing my muscles once again to help ease the throbbing which my attention-whore of a pussy has started. “Not now,” I want to whisper to it, but I know it wouldn’t help. I started this in the first place, anyway, it’s not my fault it wants things to escalate. And what does my pussy know about there being a time and place for everything?
I update my status – “The Coquitten is squirming in her chair in lecture hall, wishing she hadn’t worn leggings underneath her skirt today.”
Frat Boy #1 squints to read what I wrote, and also wishes I hadn’t worn leggings underneath my skirt today. He’s noticed how all the movement I’ve done in my chair has forced my skirt to ride up, and he imagines how much skin would be showing if the leggings were off. Quite a bit, he thinks, trying to catch a glimpse of whether or not I have a panty line.
Frat Boy #2 scribbles down the homework.
I wonder if it’s hot in the lecture hall, or if it’s just the heat emanating from between my legs keeping me this warm. I reach down towards my backpack to get a pencil and my breasts are pressed against my legs ever so slightly. My nipples are more sensitive than I thought at the moment, and the gentle brush makes them harder. I begin tensing and releasing my thigh muscles again, running the tip of the pencil up my legging-ed thigh.
Frat Boy #1 watches the pencil move, and his gaze is drawn to the hem of the skirt again. He thinks about putting his hand up my skirt, putting his fingers against my crotch, and rubbing the fabric of my leggings and panties until he can feel how wet I am through both layers. He tries to casually put his hand between his legs, the syllabus packet hiding his hand as he “readjusts” his shorts.
Frat Boy #2 thinks his friend has an itch.
I’m feeling anxious. I want to prop my legs up on the seats in front of me and open up my thighs, hiking my skirt up further around my waist and allowing me to slide my fingers under the elastic band of the tights, beneath my lacy thong, and into my growing wetness. The thought of it is torture, and I have to content myself with putting a hand between my tightly closed thighs and letting my fingers strain to try and touch discreetly.
Frat Boy #1 can’t believe he’s seeing my thumb indiscreetly moving in circles underneath my skirt. He can’t believe I’m breathing that hard in class. He can’t believe no one else, including his dumbass friend, hasn’t noticed. He isn’t sure if he can stand up after class finishes, but he certainly won’t be able to take care of anything with Frat Boy #2 right next to him.
Frat Boy #2 sends a text to his girlfriend – “hey wats up”. He sends another to his girl on the side – “hey wats up”. Both are excited to get a message from him. Both don’t realize he sent another text to three of his frat brothers – “hey wats up”.
The teacher has no idea I’m touching myself, I think, and the thought turns me on more. The TA has no idea I’m about to come, I think, and the thought builds me up. I wonder if the boys behind me know, I think, and my hidden hands gets more frenzied before I clench my teeth and close my eyes and silently orgasm with a maddening control. Miraculously, class ends at same time, and students getting up and walking around distract anyone who might have noticed from my flushed state. I hurriedly put my laptop in my backpack.
As I leave, Frat Boy #1 falls in line behind me on the stairs, and I am surprised to feel the softness of a thigh and the hardness of an erection against my ass. “You’re bad,” he whispers, pressed close behind me, and, embarrassed, I rush out of class.
I wish I’d gotten a better look at his face so I could sit in front of him again next week.
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