She was listening. Processing. But her body was responding to the pen, to the touch, to the proximity. Her hips were swaying — small, unconscious movements, her body seeking friction that it wasn't getting.
I moved down. Her panties. The pink fabric was soaked — a dark, wet patch covering the entire front, the fabric clinging to her swollen lips. The scent of her arousal was thick in the steamy air — sweet, musky, undeniable.
I pulled her panties down. Over her hips, past her thighs, catching at her knees. She trembled. Her hands went to cover herself — then stopped. Dropped. She was too deep into the academic narrative. Too committed to the fiction that this was research.
Her pussy. Hairy — dark, thick curls covering her mound, extending down her inner thighs. The lips were visible beneath the hair — swollen, flushed, the inner flesh glistening. Her clit — engorged, peeking from its hood — throbbed visibly.
