Evilangel
Kylie Rocket, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun, thick as honey, poured through the dusty windowpanes, gilding the stray wisps of hair that had escaped from her careless ponytail. A faint, clean scent of soap and pencil shavings clung to her skin, a stark contrast to the slow, deliberate heat building low in her belly. She arched her back slightly agat the worn wooden desk, the grain pressing a familiar pattern into her palms as she leaned back. The starched white cotton of her blouse felt suddenly restrictive, each breath causing the fabric to pull taut across her chest. A single bead of sweat traced a lazy path from her temple, following the delicate curve of her jaw down to the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. Her lips, parted just enough to allow a soft sigh to escape, were still chapped from biting them in concentration hours earlier. The fading light caught the golden highlights in her hair, setting the untamed strands ablaze like a halo of spun wheat. Her skirt rustled with the slightest shift of her thighs, a whisper of sound that seemed deafening in the quiet, empty classroom. Closing her eyes, she let the sensation wash over her, a wave of pure, unadulterated feeling that was both a surrender and a claiming.
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